


Atonement

by LadyOfGlencairn



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fanfiction, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-13 05:10:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5696242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyOfGlencairn/pseuds/LadyOfGlencairn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sophie de Clermont has no money, no family and no prospects. Desperate to save herself from squalor she offers herself to Fabien Marchal, head of the king's personal guard, in exchange for his protection. A dangerous, emotionless and solitary figure, Fabien trusts no one. Rejecting Sophie's offer, he makes one of his own - the consequences of which he could never have foreseen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I recently marathoned Versailles and became completely fascinated by Fabien. When Sophie offered herself to him I knew I was a goner. 
> 
> The story picks up mid-episode 10, just before Henriette dies.

Chateau de Versailles, France

1670

 

_From now on, I own you._

Those words, uttered by Fabien Marchal, the head of the king's personal guard, reverberated through Sophie de Clermont's mind as she navigated her way through the underbelly of Versailles. She'd never been in this part of the palace before, had not even known it existed before now. There were no halls of glass here, no sumptuous tapestries and wallpaper, none of the golden splendour she was so accustomed to seeing throughout the rest of the king's residence. In contrast, the series of tunnels that ran beneath the royal chateau were dark and damp, the bare stone fortifications free of any decoration save the occasional patch of moss. Along the upper slopes of the walls were flame torches at irregular intervals illuminating the passageway ahead, but even the soft glow cast by the lamplight could not mask the cold gloom surrounding her. She was certain there were traces of vermin underfoot, and God knew not what else, so as a precaution against soiling the hem of her gown, she lifted it a few inches off the ground before continuing down the narrow corridor.

The hour was late and while there was still an abundance of entertainment for the nobles at court to enjoy into the early hours of the morning, Sophie was not in the mood to gossip or play cards. Not when her world was slowly crumbling around her. Her mother was gone, but to where she did not know. Apart from being fraud, Beatrice de Clermont had also been a Huguenot spy who'd conspired against the king. The news had come as a heavy blow to Sophie, particularly after so recently discovering that she was not of noble birth as she'd been lead to believe, but rather the daughter of two protestant nobodies. She had always known her mother was shrewd and ambitious, but she had not for a moment thought her a traitor. Was she presently locked up in a dungeon somewhere being tortured? Or had she been banished to some dismal part of the country where no one would ever find her? Neither scenario was particularly comforting.

And now, after so recently being taken into the royal household as a companion to Princess Henriette, Sophie's position hung in the balance. The princess had taken ill after collapsing at the masked ball held in her honour the previous evening, and if rumours were to be believed, her life was in danger. Guilt washed over Sophie as she listened to her heels echoing off the stone walls. Though nothing had been confirmed, she knew Her Royal Highness was thought to have been poisoned and the meal in question was one Sophie had prepared. She knew she'd done nothing wrong, but that did not make her feel any less responsible. She liked the princess and would not wish to see her come to any harm.

Though, this was not the first time her position at court had come under threat. When Monsieur Marchal had visited her apartment, ordering her to leave Versailles after her mother's deception had come to light, she'd panicked. She had nowhere to go, no one to call on for assistance and no means of supporting herself save one - Benoit.

She'd been flattered by the attention of the handsome builder even though her mother had disapproved. Their budding romance had been sweet, their embraces tender and chaste. When Sophie had realised that she'd been kicked out of court, she'd gone to him for help, explaining everything. She would happily have married him, but he would not take her. Benoit had been furious, calling her a liar and a cheat and Sophie could not blame him. While she had not understood or condoned her mother's deceit, she'd done nothing to put stop to it either. She'd been too afraid of the consequences.

Madame de Clermont's ambition for her daughter had always been clear: Sophie was to catch the king's eye and thereby secure their futures. This had never been Sophie's desire, for while she thought the king a handsome man, she did not love him. Nor did she relish the idea of being his possession for only as long as he deemed her worthy; her heart would not survive such callous treatment. But since she'd loved her mother and tried to be obedient, she had done as she was told. She'd worn the expensive gowns she was certain they did not have the coin to pay for and uttered barely a word of protest when her corset was tightened to such a painful degree that it hurt to breathe. _You must suffer for beauty, my dearest._ The sentiment had been repeated ad nauseum as numerous maids spent hours curling her hair into the latest, elaborate styles and various creams and potions were applied to her skin to keep her complexion fair and free of imperfections.

But how she'd resented it at times. Deep down, she was a romantic at heart. She'd craved love and understanding, had dreamed of a family of her own, of a man's unwavering devotion. Her mother was far more practical, but had not been against the notion provided the man belonged to the upper crust or better yet, was the king himself. Her parent had wasted no time in ruining any fantasies Sophie might have had of choosing for herself, regardless of rank and station. She did not doubt that her mother loved her, and perhaps it was that love that made her so determined and at times, even a little cruel.

With her mother gone and Benoit's rejection still smarting, it had dawned upon Sophie that she had one choice left. She still possessed something of value that she could use in order to secure a small measure of protection: her innocence. It had been a hard decision to come by, had been even harder to utter the words knowing it would be the end of all her childhood dreams of love and romance, of flowers and poetry. But with no other choices left to her, she'd somehow mustered the courage to approach Monsieur Marchal with her offer. Because he was already aware of her past, he was the only man she could think of who might be willing to take her on. It didn't matter that she suspected that he'd been her mother's lover. If accepting his advances meant not having to wallow in the gutters, then she'd force herself to endure his attentions a hundred times over.

But much to her surprise, and even greater relief, he'd declined. Instead he'd offered her something else, perhaps something far worse - a chance to maintain her ruse, to keep up the pretence of respectability in exchange for her absolute autonomy. His bargain had sounded like salvation at the time, but the longer she'd pondered it, the worse off she knew she was. Instead of merely being his lover until he tired of her, she would now have to play the whore and more, whenever and with whomever he demanded. Was that not selling her soul for a roof over her head and food in her belly? But she was trapped, so of course she'd agreed, there was nothing else she could have done, no other options available to her. She had no skills, no money, no family. She either submitted or starved. In the end she'd chosen self-preservation over certain death.

Though, as she neared her new master's chambers, she did not feel certain that she'd made the correct decision. Could she be all the things he'd told her she must? Spy, charmer, liar…seductress? The latter made Sophie shiver, drawing the folds of her cloak closer around her body. She'd never been with a man, did not know how she would find the courage to do so with someone she did not love.

Up ahead she could see the end of the corridor, a sign that her destination was near. Inside her hand was the note that had been thrust under her door instructing her on the time and place she was to meet Monsieur Marchal. Her nerves frayed, she stopped and took a fortifying breath, hoping for some semblance of calm. She had not exactly endeared herself to him earlier that day. He'd been asking questions about the princess' meals and their preparation and Sophie had been uncooperative and antagonising. It had obviously not been the best strategy to employ when dealing with a man of his reputation, but she'd been desperate for news about her mother's whereabouts. She knew her impertinence had angered him, she'd seen it reflected in his cold stare, though he'd given no outward sign of it. Knowing she was moments away from facing him again, this time alone, made her regret her earlier impulsive behaviour. Praying for the courage to endure whatever lay ahead, she ventured forth.

Making her way down a steep set of steps she entered a cavernous room. It was an office of sorts, dimly lit by candles and filled with all manner of curiosities. There was a sturdy wooden desk topped with books, ledgers and writing implements. Behind it, fixed to the wall was a large, impressively detailed map of France. Venturing deeper she was struck by the notion that it was a very masculine domain, more practical than luxurious, free of any comforts save a few pieces of furniture and the roaring fire in the grate. Drawn to its warmth, Sophie stood with her back to it, relishing the heat seeping into her bones while she surveyed the rest of the chamber. To the far left and right of her position were two archways branching off into different directions, but without going to investigate, she could not be certain where they lead to. Her eyes falling back on the desk, she spied an open book, a magnifier lying across the faded pages. Stepping forward she reached for it, cradling the copper handle in her palm as she admired the etched engravings upon it. Curious, she held it over the page, the letters increasing significantly in size, making it much easier to read.

"I would thank you to keep your hands off my property."

Startled, Sophie dropped the tool and whirled around, gasping when she came face to face with Monsieur Marchal. Alarmed at his proximity; he was so close she could smell the soap on his skin, she shrank back, the edge of the desk biting into the backs of her thighs. With the candlelight behind her, it brightened his features, casting them in stark relief – a high, wide forehead, a long, sharp nose and a full set of lips beneath a neatly trimmed moustache. His cheekbones were well-defined, his brows like two dark slashes above deep, penetrating brown eyes that glinted mysteriously in the flickering glow. They were cold, emotionless pits of nothing as they stared at her, devoid of any feeling, any trace of warmth. The sight of them made her heart pound.

He was a dangerous looking man, Sophie decided. She'd always wondered if the rumours about his alleged savagery were true, but looking at him now she did not doubt their provenance. There was not an ounce of softness to his features, not a hint of vulnerability, not a touch of weakness. What was she doing? she wondered, shaken to her core. She could not manage this man. Indeed, she doubted anyone could boast of ever having accomplished such a feat. Her mother might have tried, but clearly her disappearance indicated that she, too, had failed.

"I-I am sorry. I did not mean to pry. I saw your magnifier and could not resist a closer look," she explained, hating the slight tremble in her voice.

He stood still for a long time, his gaze boring into her, as though weighing the truth of her words. After what felt like an eternity, he stepped past her, his dark, wavy hair swaying gently against the sides of his face and the breadth of his shoulders as he moved. Rounding his desk, he shut the book she'd been looking at with a decisive snap, the sound making her jump. Relieved to no longer have his broad bulk hovering over her, she turned to face him, watching in silence as he carelessly discarded his cloak and jabot. Beneath, he wore his customary brown doublet over a snowy white shirt. The hint of skin showing in the vee at his throat only seemed to add to the air of potent masculinity that surrounded him.

Squaring her shoulders, Sophie raised the now wrinkled missive in her hand. "You wished to see me?"

He nodded briskly, wincing slightly as he took a seat behind his desk, a hand moving to support the left side of his stomach.

"Are you alright?" she asked automatically.

"I understand that you are acquainted with the Duc de Cassel," he stated, ignoring her enquiry.

A swell of revulsion rose within her as she followed suit, sinking into the rough wooden chair opposite him before pushing back the hood of her cloak. "Yes. I accompanied Madame de Montespan on the king's orders to convince him to attend the festivities at Versailles."

"There are rumours that he has an appetite for young, beautiful women," Marchal drawled, his eyes sweeping over her brazenly. Her cheeks heated at his insolence, aware that he wished to intimidate her. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction, Sophie resisted the urge to squirm in her seat. "I have seen the way he watches you and I would have you use that weakness to get closer to him, to gain his trust."

"Is he suspected of nefarious activities?" Sophie could well believe it. The duc did not seem like a man who was to be trusted.

"That is not your concern," he replied dismissively. "You are to do as I say without question."

Her heart sank. "Very well. What exactly would you have me do to obtain his favour, monsieur?"

Marchal gave her a look of contempt. "You are a woman, your mother's daughter. I am certain she has tutored you well in the art of seduction." His tone was even but there was an edge of bitterness just beneath the surface.

"Seduction?" she repeated faintly, momentarily forgetting his insult as his meaning became apparent. Surely he was not asking—?

"I told you when we struck our bargain that you would do whatever necessary to acquire the information I seek. I need to know what Cassel is planning and who he is planning it with. I need copies of any correspondence he sends or receives. How you go about attaining that intelligence is of no interest to me so long as you do it quickly," he said with a hard stare.

"But I did not think—" she started and then stopped, shivering despite the warmth of the chamber. Her heart was beating a mile a minute as she stared into the folds of her yellow silk gown. _Seduce the Duc de Cassel?_ Her skin crawled at the very thought. There was something in the duc's eyes, a cruelty, which scared her even more than the incivility of the man seated before her. But how did she tell Monsieur Marchal that she'd thought there'd be more time? That she'd imagined gradually growing accustomed to the notion of engaging in an intimate relationship with a man? It was obvious that he was not the type to care for such sentimentality.

* * *

 

Fabien watched the play of emotions flit across Sophie de Clermont face as she sat quietly, lost in her own thoughts. She claimed to be an innocent, untouched by any man and loathe as he was to admit it, he was inclined to believe her. After all, she had no reason to lie. If she'd been willing to warm his bed then she must have known how easy it would have been for him to disprove her assertion had it been made falsely. He'd heard rumours that her mother had wanted her to become the king's new mistress. At the time he'd dismissed the whispers as idle gossip, but now he knew better. Ensuring Sophie remained chaste had all been in an effort to make the prize more alluring. Had she been successful in securing the king's affections, it would have been so much easier for her mother to destroy the monarchy from within.

How he hated Beatrice de Clermont. Not only because she was a traitor to the crown, but also because she'd made a fool of him. He'd succumbed to her feminine whiles, too blinded by lust to see through her treachery. Because of him, Lauren had lost her life. Instead of heeding her warnings against Madame de Clermont, he'd cautioned her against meddling in his affairs and allowed himself to be drawn in by a few false smiles and the promise of a willing body. He would not make the same mistake again.

Sophie was a beauty, he'd admit that. Her dark hair was swept up, the mass of intricate curls pinned atop her head with a single long, thick coil dangling loose across one shoulder. Her complexion was flawless, her heart-shaped face housing delicate brows that arched like graceful wings above her slanting, almond-shaped eyes. Her nose was small and pert, her lips pleasantly plump, the colour reminiscent of ripe peaches. Fabien made no attempt to hide his disdain as he catalogued her features. It was not hard to see why some imbecile would be tempted to bare his soul in exchange for her favour. The air of innocence surrounding her would be intoxicating to any man. But he was not susceptible. If Beatrice had reminded him of anything, it was that all women were fickle at heart, loyal only to themselves and to those who could aid their aspirations; they were not to be trusted. While he was certain Sophie had known nothing of her mother's plot against the king, that did not mean she was free of the inherent cunning and deceit that plagued her sex.

He grudgingly respected her courage to defy him, to remain at Versailles after he'd ordered her to leave. Fabien knew she had to be desperate if she'd summoned the nerve to offer herself to him in exchange for his protection. Though while he had no interest in sampling what he was certain many would call him a fool for passing on, he was not beyond using her to get what he wanted.

"Is there a problem?"

She seemed to have lost some of the confidence she'd displayed just a few hours before when she'd dared to call him a fool. He was certain others thought it, but thus far she'd been the only one brave enough to say it to his face. Well, Montcourt had dared too, but he was no longer alive to repeat it.

She bit her lip, her brow furrowing. "I am not the skilled seductress you seem to think I am."

He quirked a brow. "Then might I suggest you learn, and fast. You are here only because you are useful to me. If you've changed your mind, you are free to leave. Post-haste," he added deliberately. Her head whipped up at that, her eyes meeting his. He saw distress and unease reflected back at him, his irritation rising when he felt the stab to his conscience. He shoved it down. He did not possess such a thing, not anymore. In his line of work it was a weakness he could ill afford.

"No," she replied quietly. "I will do as you ask. But why the urgency? Does this have something to do with Princess Henriette?" She inched forward in her seat, clearly anxious.

"Do not concern yourself—"

"How can I not?" she burst forth. "I was attending to the princess when she took ill. At first I did not think much of it, but when you started questioning the servants and everyone else close to her, I began to wonder whether you might suspect foul play."

"And if I did?" he asked, watching her closely.

Her lips compressed into a hard line. "I would never hurt her."

"I did not say that you would."

"I was merely doing my duty, monsieur. As best I could."

"So you claim."

"But you still suspect me of wishing to cause her harm? Because I prepared the broth that made her unwell?"

"I did not say that either."

"Urgh!" she exclaimed, clearly disgruntled by his less than forthcoming responses. "Must you be so vexing?"

"I urge you to consider your tone, mademoiselle," he warned.

Chastised, she sat back. "At least tell me this: will she recover?" The note of hope in her voice was unmistakable.

"Focus on Cassel," Fabien deflected. "I want to know everything he says, even minute details you may think insignificant. I will decide what is useful and what is not, so do not bother to think, if indeed you are capable of such a feat." She stiffened at the insult and he felt some measure of satisfaction. "And work quickly. I want a report in twenty-four hours, perhaps sooner. Now leave." When she remained seated he arched a brow. "Were my instructions unclear?"

"What happened to my mother?" she demanded, looking him straight in the eye.

 _Not just courageous then, tenacious too._ "Like I told you before, I am not here to answer you."

A flicker of annoyance passed over her features. "Why will you not tell me? Has she been banished to Paris? Sent to Pau? Or have you had her jailed?"

"You really have no idea, do you?" he asked, astonished by her naiveté.

"No idea of _what_?" she cried in frustration. "For months my mother has been behaving strangely, secretively. Whenever I asked her about it, she would tell me that all was well, but I knew better, so I poked and prodded until she eventually relented, confessing that we were not nobles, that she had been pretending for years." Her tone gentled. "Everything I thought I knew about my life is a lie, monsieur. I am like a feather in the wind, adrift and directionless. I know nothing of my past save a few scant details and before I could get my mother to tell me more she was gone and you know to where. I beg of you, tell me the truth, _please_."

Fabien observed her in silence for several moments before speaking. "Your mother was a traitor, plotting with others against the king."

"I already know this," she said, exasperated. "She was a Huguenot spy, funded and supported by William of Orange. You told me all this yourself."

"But do you have any notion of what she has done in the name of her cause?"

Sophie stilled. "No. I have not allowed myself to dwell on the particulars," she confessed.

"Then allow me to enlighten you. She killed," he stated bluntly, watching the blood drain from her face. "Lauren, one of my staff had her throat slit when your mother realised her treachery was close to being uncovered. She also," he paused, gritting his teeth, "endeavoured to poison me. However, as you can see, she failed in her attempt."

Sophie's eyes were rapidly filling with tears. Her mouth moved, but no words were forthcoming. Fabien watched her swallow repeatedly, most likely in an effort to wrestle her emotions into submission.

"Do you know what happens to traitors?" he asked softly.

She closed her eyes, her head bowing when a single tear escaped to slide down her cheek. "She is dead." It was not a question.

Unwittingly his eyes tracked the tear's journey, watching as it trickled down her neck towards her throat before eventually melting into the heat of her skin. Dragging his gaze back to her face, he uttered, "Yes."

Her eyes lifted once more, her dark stare riveted to his, the waves of emotion radiating from them pinning him to his chair. "Did you do it?" she choked.

He was surprised by the urge to look away, but he resisted. "No. But it was on the king's instruction and I was there. I arranged it."

"Did you love her?"

" _Love_?" he spat, the taste of the word foul against his tongue. "I did not. Your mother was a dangerous and duplicitous woman skilled at seduction and deception. At Versailles it seemed she managed to accomplish both. However, she did not get away with it. I do not yet know if you possess her talents, but you would do well to remember that you will meet a similar fate should you choose to betray me."

Sophie flinched. "What have I done to make you think so poorly of me?"

Fabien's lips curled contemptuously. "You are a woman. I have yet to meet one of whom I did not think poorly."

"Then I shall have to work to change your mind, monsieur. At least of me," she whispered, before standing.

"Do not waste your time. You are unlikely to exceed expectations that are already exceptionally low," he shot back.

She went rigid, her hands balling into tight fists. The sight should have made him feel triumphant. Instead, he felt small and petty, like a cat toying with a mouse when they both knew the outcome was inevitable. Guilt, an unfamiliar emotion to him, pushed through his seemingly impenetrable defences, succeeding only in strengthening his resolve as he pushed back against its unwelcome pangs.

"I am not my mother," Sophie declared, her back ramrod straight.

"If that were true you would not be here now," he contradicted, slowly rising to his full height.

"Are you certain your judgement can be trusted, Monsieur Marchal?"

His jaw tightened as his carefully controlled mask slipped an inch. He hated that she was the one to give voice to his deepest fear. "I experienced a lapse which I profoundly regret and which I can assure you will never happen again. Do not think that I am blind, mademoiselle, because I assure you, I see you clearly," he said, taking a step towards her. "You were so afraid of losing your position, your comfortable bed, your fine clothing, that you chose _this_ , a life of secrets and lies, a life which includes whoring at my command, over that of a humble builder's wife."

His words were cruel and unjust; after all, she'd had little other choice but to accept him after her suitor rejected her. But in that moment Fabien did not care for semantics, he sought only to hurt, to punish. Perhaps she was not Beatrice, but in her absence, her daughter would do just as well.

"That is n-not fair," Sophie countered, a spark of anger filtering through her shaky words even as she took a step back. "I went to Benoit. I would have married him in a trice to save myself from this fate. I told you that he would not have me."

"Clever man."

His gaze fixed on her, Fabien slowly stalked around the table, following even as Sophie retreated from his advances. She ended up pressed to the back wall, her body straining against the brick, possibly hoping that if she pushed hard enough she'd melt into it. _She does not seem so brave now._ Then, as though she sensed his thoughts, she tilted her chin slightly in an annoying display of defiance. Her show of courage only incensed him further, his façade of indifference slipping another notch. _She should be cowering, wilting, begging me to leave her be._

"I _did not_ want this; I hate the very thought of it," she insisted fervently. "But you know as well as I do that I either chose to submit to you or took my chances on the street. With the little I know of such a life," she faltered, bristling at his attempts to unnerve her, but standing her ground nonetheless, "I knew that I would not last the night without being molested… or worse."

He was close to her now, his chest mere inches from her own. Leaning in, the scent of lavender assaulted his senses. "Perhaps you should have taken your chances outside of these walls."

"I wish I could have," she admitted, licking her lips nervously. "But I do not know a different way of life. Without my mother—"

At the mention of the woman who'd almost cost him everything, the last of Fabien's control snapped. "Your mother was nothing more than a commoner playing at being titled whilst using her body as a weapon to gain whatever she needed," he sneered. Deliberately seeking to intimidate her, he planted his hands on either side of her head, trapping her within the cage of his arms. He could see the pulse at the base of her throat fluttering wildly, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. "Would she be proud of you, I wonder? If she knew what you have chosen for yourself, would she cheer, knowing you were following in the family business?" he taunted, watching as she silently shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears.

Again, he felt the unpleasant stirrings of guilt, his words growing colder in an attempt to wash the sentiment away. "How you do you think she managed to pay for this gown?" he asked, his gaze dipping slightly towards her satin frock. "For those pearls at your ears? Not with coin, I assure you." He leaned even closer. "Has she taught you well, mademoiselle? Will you succeed where she has failed? You shake your head, but I guarantee that in a week, a month, a year, you will be enjoying the very thing you now claim you hate. You will love it, crave it, seek it. Before long you will savour the power you wield, the thrill of bringing men to their knees with a quick fuck."

He saw it coming, had plenty of time to react, but he could not explain why he did nothing to stop it. The sound of her hand as it struck his cheek reverberated around the room, eclipsing the gasp of horror that followed swiftly thereafter. His flesh stung more than he'd expected, but he welcomed the pain, some part of him acknowledging that perhaps he deserved it.

Fabien looked down at her, so small, almost fragile as she stood transfixed, her hands clapped over her mouth in dismay. Her eyes were wide with shock and hurt, staring up at him in disbelief as though she could not comprehend her own daring. In the grate the fire crackled and hissed, it's roaring flames casting shadows around them that appeared to lick at the exposed skin of her neck and upper shoulders. Inadvertently his eyes traced their movement, watching flares of yellow and orange as they danced across her flesh.

Scowling, he forced his gaze back to hers, the ferocity in them causing her to recoil. "Oh yes, you are your mother. In time you will be _exactly_ like her."

With a sob, Sophie shoved past him. Lifting her skirts, she fled up the steps to freedom like the devil was on her heels, the scent of lavender lingering in the air long after the sound of her rustling skirts had faded to nothing.

Alone, Fabien closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his hands moving to cover the aching wound to his belly. Fury swept through him, unfurling in his chest and spreading throughout his entire body before settling like burning coals in the pit of his stomach. But at whom his ire was directed – whether at Sophie for daring to defy him or at himself for losing control - he did not know, and that uncertainty troubled him. Once again he'd failed in his duty. He could excuse the first time; though it did not sit well with him, he was not the first man to be duped by a cunning woman and he would certainly not be the last. But how did he justify allowing a slip of a girl, a complete innocent, to get under his skin, ripping his hard earned discipline to shreds? He had no answer. All he knew was that he could not let it happen again.

Pushing Sophie de Clermont from his mind, he ignored his throbbing belly and turned towards his desk. He had more important matters to attend to.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get back to this story. There's just been so much going on. But after catching up on S2, I just felt so inspired again. My intention is not to have this story follow the show's canonical timeline. I will be veering off in my own direction, but might, at times, borrow some scenes if it suits my purposes. Obviously, in my story, Fabien and Claudine are not, and will never be, romantically linked. Please let me know what you think!

Sophie fled from the room, her heart beating wildly in her chest, a lump of misery burning in her throat. Running back the way she'd come, she grasped her voluminous skirts with both hands to prevent from tripping over them. She had gravely miscalculated the situation she was in. Fabien Marchal did not have a sympathetic bone in his body and she would find no compassion from him. He was a hard, cold man and he could crush her without even trying.

And she was completely and utterly at his mercy.

She'd also just struck him.

Sophie stifled a sob. She was not prone to fits of violence, but his cruelty had provoked something alien inside of her and she'd allowed instinct to take over. He'd said the most vicious things and attacked her character in a manner that was grossly unfair. She hated that his malice had hurt, deeply. It was clear that he actually believed her capable of all he'd accused her of. And damn him, she'd be lying if she did not acknowledge that in a hidden corner of her sundered soul, she wondered if he was right.

Hastily drying her tears, she carefully navigated her way back to her apartments, making sure to avoid any late-night partygoers before locking herself in for the night. Her maid had long since retired, but she did not care about having to undress herself. She had bigger concerns. Throwing her cloak onto a velvet stool, she paced restlessly. The things Monsieur Marchal had said…the way he'd looked at her, with so much contempt it bordered on hatred. And all because of her mother.

 _Mother._  Sophie's heart squeezed so tightly in her chest that for a moment it was hard to breathe. A murderer, he'd said. And a whore. Sophie could not comprehend it, could not reconcile the mother she'd known with the sadistic woman he'd described. Yes, her parent had been an ambitious social climber,  _but a killer?_  Sophie stopped pacing, her face dropping into her hands in despair. Dear God. She seemed to be trapped in a nightmare, only there was no hope of waking up and leaving it all behind. She took a deep breath and swallowed. She had not even asked where her mother was buried. Though it did not really matter. Beatrice was a traitor and she'd died a traitor's death. There would be no grave to visit, no physical monument left behind for Sophie to direct her grief towards. It was as if her mother had simply vanished, never to return, leaving Sophie alone to navigate a world she feared would swallow her whole.

Who had Beatrice de Clermont really been? Had she worked alone?  _Surely not_ , Sophie thought. So who were her accomplices? Were they still at court? And more importantly, were they responsible for Princess Henriette's illness? An unsettling thought flitted through her mind. Had her mother used her as a means of striking at the heart of the monarchy?  _Yes_. Instinctively she knew it to be true. Her eyelids prickled with renewed tears. The sense of betrayal was crippling.

A fresh tide of misery threatened to overwhelm, but she stopped short of bursting into tears. She straightened and sniffed. She could not afford to rail against her misfortunes, at least not yet. She needed to plan. Her very survival depended upon it. She resumed pacing, thinking.

The Duc de Cassel…

Sophie already knew that the he found her attractive. She'd endured enough of his leering to make that abundantly clear. So getting close to him would not be a problem. But how would she be able to extract information without having to…? She shuddered at the thought of allowing such a man to touch her intimately. Instinctively she knew Cassel would hurt her, even enjoy doing so. No, she would not let him have her. She would rather die. There had to be another way. Since he was out of favour with the king, rumour had it that he was staying in very cramped quarters somewhere in the palace. She needed to find out where. Perhaps she could gain access while he was in the salon playing cards, or drinking, to see if he was hiding anything in his rooms. Though she did not feel particularly hopeful. Monsieur Marchal would have been thorough in his investigation of the fallen duc. His rooms would have been searched, his belongings ransacked. Her heart sank. Cassel would have to be stupid to leave anything incriminating in plain sight. But at least it was a start. And it might give her an opportunity to check if he was hiding any recent correspondence. That was really the only avenue she genuinely believed might yield results. She would have to make the man her study, follow him, get to know his habits, determine whom he favoured at court. And she'd have to do it quickly. Her usefulness depended upon her ability to gain information. If she failed…no, failure did not bear thinking about.

Slightly calmer now that she had some semblance of a plan - granted, a flimsy one - but a start at least, Sophie stepped closer to the windows, opening the shutters to allow the crisp autumn breeze to wash over her. It was bracing, but she did not mind the cold. It helped to focus her, to steady the emotions roiling around inside of her. Staring out into the darkness towards the magnificent gardens below, she could see the king's guards patrolling the grounds, flame lit torches held aloft.

 _I am one of them now_ , she realized, her stomach in knots. She was a soldier in His Majesty's army and she was bound by duty.

She shivered, gooseflesh breaking out across her shoulders and down her arms. How quickly her life had been turned upside down. A few short days ago she'd believed that her future might contain an advantages marriage with a comfortable home, children and perhaps if she was lucky, love. Now she was not sure about anything. Only that in order to survive, she was placing her trust in a man who despised her, but whom she had no choice but to depend upon. Like it or not, Monsieur Marchal was literally all that stood between her and complete ruination.

Slowly Sophie drew the shutters closed and retreated into the sanctuary of her bedroom. She undressed and climbed into bed, staring at the draped canopy overhead. She knew she needed to get some rest, but sleep was elusive. There was too much to consider. She did not know how long it would take to gain Monsieur Marchal's trust, but she had to try. She needed him and by God, he needed her. If he did not, she would surely have been wandering the streets of Versailles by now. There was some comfort in that. She was needed. Now all she had to do was prove her worth.  _And I will_ , she silently vowed.

Turning onto her side, she burrowed deeper under the covers and exhaled, allowing the evening's events to flood back to the fore. Her tiny frame shuddered as scalding tears slid down her cheeks and soaked into the fine bed linens. More alone than she'd ever felt in her life, Sophie cried for the mother she'd lost but never really knew, for the future she'd never have and for the innocence she no longer possessed.

* * *

Versailles was in mourning. Nearly a week after Princess Henriette had first taken ill, the news came of her demise and Sophie was deeply sorry for it. The princess had been kind to her. She'd also been one of Versailles' crowning jewels, her constant cheer and good humour spreading to all those who surrounded her. She'd not only been beloved by everyone at court, but also by her husband, the  _Duc d_ ' _Orléans_ and his brother, the King. It was well known that His Majesty and the princess had been lovers, a fact that was overlooked by  _Monsieur_ only because he preferred the company of men.

But Sophie did not have the luxury of pondering the great loss to the royal family. She'd had her ears to the ground, listening for any piece of gossip that Monsieur Marchal might find useful. She'd reported whatever she heard to him, but he did not seem particularly satisfied with any of her efforts. His terse note at dawn had hammered that point home. He wanted results and so she was doing her best to get some.

To that end, Sophie stood on the fringe of the salon, her focus on the Duc de Cassel who was conversing some way off, with a few lesser nobles. She'd been furtively observing him for days, trying to discover his routine, if indeed there was any. While she was eager to get into his apartments, she could not afford to be rash. If she was caught, by the duc no less, the consequences did not bear thinking about. Thus far all she'd managed to determine was that he loved to gamble, overindulged in alcohol, and cared little for his appearance. Her nose shriveled inadvertently as she watched him out of the corner of her eye. He reminded her of a drowned sewer rat – pale and greasy – but with a hint of cunning she'd be foolish to ignore.

He caught her eye and Sophie forced her expression to remain neutral. She nodded politely, then deliberately moved her gaze past him. He excused himself and made his way towards her. Instinct told her to flee, but she remained rooted to her spot.

"Mademoiselle de Clermont," he said as he approached. He moved to stand beside her. He reeked of wine. "I have not seen your mother for a while. I hope she is not unwell?"

"She is well, Your Grace," Sophie replied, pleased that her voice did not tremble. "Family business called her back to Pau."

"Ah," he mused, his beady eyes roving across her person, making her feel dirty. "And are you enjoying your solitude? Chaperones can be so tiresome."

"How would you know, Your Grace?" Sophie asked, keeping her voice light, as though she were teasing. "I doubt you have ever been forced to have one."

"Indeed," he smiled. "Although I have much experience trying to get rid of them." Sophie raised a brow and he clarified. "Metaphorically, of course."

"Of course," she echoed, not believing a word of it. "And are you glad to be at Versailles? It is splendid, is it not?"

His mouth tightened. "I would prefer to be home, on my own land."

"And yet the king would have you near. You must be very important to him."

"Not particularly," he hedged, his voice betraying mild suspicion. "His Majesty merely prefers to have all the nobles at court."

She forced a smile. "It does make the palace rather crowded, I think."

"Unfortunately," he drawled, an unsettling light entering his eyes.

A man Sophie recognized but did not know personally, stepped up to the duc and whispered in his ear. Whatever news he was imparting made the duc go rigid. The man moved away again as quickly as he'd approached.

"Is everything alright?" Sophie prompted casually.

"Just some…business that needs my attention." He bowed slightly, starting to move away, then hesitated. "Do you think I could entice you to save me a dance later this evening, mademoiselle?"

Sophie barely suppressed her revulsion. "It would be unseemly to enjoy such lively pursuits in light of the recent royal death, do you not think?" His eyes shuttered. "In fact, I doubt there will be any festivities this evening. I suspect most might spend their time in prayer." The duc actually grimaced. Extending her hand towards him, Sophie forced herself to say, "Perhaps another time?"

He leaned over her fingers, his clammy breath wafting over her skin. "It would be my pleasure."

Sophie waited until he turned away before she rubbed the back of her hand against the skirt of her gown, hoping to remove all trace of him from her skin. She watched as he exited the salon and then moved to follow. She made sure to stay hidden as she tracked his movements to a secluded alcove below a staircase leading to the royal apartments. It was here that she saw a servant girl slip a note into the duc's hand before scurrying off. Cassel glanced around before hastily breaking the letter's seal. He obviously liked what he was reading, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Footsteps could be heard from overhead and the duc turned quickly and headed down the corridor in the opposite direction to her. Intending to follow, Sophie's plan was thwarted when she bumped into a passing figure.

"Oh!" Sophie exclaimed when they made contact.

A large brown leather bag landed on the ground with a thud. Glancing up, Sophie recognized the wavy blonde hair and clear blue eyes of Mademoiselle Masson, the king's private physician. She looked rather comical dressed as a man in brown trousers, a white shirt and matching brown doublet. She even had a fake mustache to complete the ensemble. A mustache that was presently quite askew.

"I am sorry, mademoiselle, I did not see you there," the other woman apologised, reaching for her bag which had fallen partly open. There was an array of glass bottles inside as well as a plethora of medical instruments.

"Uh, I think your…" Sophie gestured towards the physician's upper lip.

"Oh!" Mademoiselle Masson's eyes widened and then filled with embarrassment as she reached for the strip of fluff that hung limply from one side of her face. She tried to smooth it back into place, but it kept coming loose.

Amused, Sophie asked, "May I inquire as to why you bother? It is clear to anyone with two eyes that you are not a man."

"To work as His Majesty's physician I need to appear to be a man." The other woman was still trying to stick the mustache back. She shrugged, giving up. "Even a bad one."

"So if the king says you are a man, then it must be true?"

"Exactly," she replied with a tentative smile.

"If that is the case, then surely this pretense is not really necessary?" Despite her words, she reached for the mustache and placed it back on the woman's upper lip. "There. That will do."

"Thank you," she said, looking somewhat surprised before bending to retrieve her bag from the floor. "And you are right. It is not really necessary, but it does make the men at court feel more at ease."

"I am Sophie de Clermont," Sophie said impulsively.

Recognition flickered in the physician's eyes. "Claudine Masson."

By tacit agreement they started walking down the hallway together. "How is His Majesty?"

Claudine exhaled loudly. "Deeply saddened. As is the whole family."

Sophie nodded, then said, "Forgive me, but I got the impression just now that you already knew who I was?"

"I recognised your name." Claudine hesitated. "Monsieur Marchal mentioned you." Sophie froze, alarmed. "No, please, do not fret. He said nothing unkind." Sophie shot the woman a dubious look, gratified when she flushed guiltily. "Or rather nothing too unkind."

"What did he say?" Sophie asked tentatively.

"That from time to time he may send you to see me in his stead."

"That is not all, though?"

Claudine's lips curved into a smile. "It is all that bears mentioning."

 _She is kind_ , Sophie thought, grateful for her discretion. "So you know that I am…that I am—"

"That you are in his…employ?" Claudine suggested gently, then nodded. "Which makes you and I similar."

"Somehow I doubt that. You do not seem as though you are on the verge of being tossed into the street," Sophie said resentfully, hating the flash of pity in the other woman's eyes. 

"Perhaps not," Claudine admitted. "But I also serve the crown when circumstance demands it."

"How so? What type of assistance do you provide Monsieur Marchal?"

"My skills as a physician primarily, but also as a toxicologist." Claudine glanced at Sophie. "And every now and then I am called upon to save his life."

Sophie's heart leapt into her throat. "So you know—"

"—that your mother tried to poison him? Yes."

They walked in silence for a moment, the only sound the swish of her gown against her legs. "He hates me because of her," Sophie confessed softly, surprised by her admission. She hardly knew Claudine Masson, but there was an air of integrity about her that set Sophie at ease. Or perhaps it was her desperation to have a friend, a confidant, someone who she did not have to pretend with. "He has made his feelings patently clear."

"He is a man and your mother wounded his pride. So because he cannot punish her, he will try to punish you. Do not allow it. Stand up to him. He might not like it, but he will respect you for it…eventually."

"You seem to know him well. A-Are you and he lovers?" she blurted, blushing at her boldness.

"God no!" Claudine exclaimed. "I have no place in my life for unwanted distractions. And even if I did, Fabien Marchal is not the kind of man I would want to become involved with."

"Whyever not?" she asked automatically, though she knew the answer. The words _fierce_ , _uncompromising_ and _dangerous_ sprang to mind.

"Ah, I see you have already discovered the truth," Claudine said, sounding amused. They reached the servant's entrance. "What has he asked you to do for him?"

"Gain the Duc de Cassel's trust. Try and get information about his activities at court. In fact, just before we stumbled into one another I saw him take possession of a note that seemed of some importance." Sophie glanced back the way they'd come. "Though it may already have been destroyed by now."

Claudine regarded her thoughtfully. "I may be able to help."

Sophie's eyes lit up. "Truly? How?"

"Come with me."

* * *

"Poisoned! Under  _my_  roof! Under  _my_  protection, Fabien!" King Louis XIV railed, pacing back and forth in his bedchamber. "Tell me, can I expect to be next?!"

"Sire, I assure you, we are close to cutting off the head of the serpent. Beatrice de Clermont was not acting alone," Fabien said, keeping his tone even as he met the furious gaze of his sovereign. "As soon as I determine who her accomplices are in the palace, order will be restored."

"But until then? Am I to be a sitting duck?" the king demanded. "I have enemies who are invisible to me and my most trusted men cannot identify them! That makes me – no, that makes  _France_ , vulnerable! If they could get to Henriette—" The king's hands clenched at his sides, his eyes closing briefly as he struggled to compose himself. "None of us are safe."

Fabien stiffened. The princess's death weighed heavily on him because it was, in part, his fault. Had he not allowed himself to be swayed by a woman's charms, he would have known something was amiss. He should have seen, should have—

"Sire, if I may," Alexandre Bontemps interjected, putting an end to his frustrated train of thought. "Monsieur Marchal has tripled the guards, employed additional tasters and taken every necessary precaution. We are satisfied that any opportunity to reach Your Majesty, or any member of the royal family directly or by foul means has been quelled."

"I am close, sire. I know it," Fabien reiterated.

The king lowered himself into the plush velvet chair angled towards the roaring fire in the grate, contemplating first Fabien and then Bontemps in turn. The rich fabric of his robe spread out around him, its sumptuousness somewhat at odds with the slightly dishevelled look of the man wearing it. His Majesty's eyes, usually a brilliant blue, were red-rimmed and inflamed, his hair in slight disarray around his drooping shoulders. France's ruler was in mourning for the woman he'd loved since childhood. The woman who now lay dead in the chapel royal because Fabien had failed in his duty.

"If you value your employment you will find them quickly, Fabien," the king said at last, fixing him with a hard stare. "Now leave me. Both of you."

Fabien bowed and departed, Bontemps hot on his heels. "Well that went better than I had expected," the king's valet quipped as he closed the bedchamber doors behind them.

Fabien gave the guards some terse instructions before moving along. "His Majesty's censure is deserved. The princess's death was avoidable."

"I will accept that her death was tragic, but you are but a mere mortal, Fabien," Bontemps said, keeping pace with Fabien's larger strides. "And as dedicated as you are to His Majesty's safety and security, you cannot know everything."

"It is my job to know everything," he contradicted harshly. The king's disappointment in him burned a hole in his gut. He owed His Majesty everything - his loyalty, his trust, his very life. Standing by helplessly as a member of the family he was sworn to protect at all costs was killed, was unforgivable.

"There are limits to what any man can do," Bontemps reasoned.

"Is that what you will tell the king should any harm come to another he cares for? The Dauphin perhaps? Or the Queen?"

Bontemps opened his mouth as though he wished to argue the point, but closed it again once he noted the fierce look on Fabien's face. Instead, he asked, "Have you any solid leads?"

"A few, but nothing concrete as yet." Fabien's eyes were watching the guards as he moved through the palace, making sure they were all stationed correctly, focused, alert.

"I have been informed that you have taken young Sophie de Clermont into your employ."

"What of it?" he asked, surprised by the swift change in subject.

"I would not like to see her come to any harm."

Fabien scowled. "Since when are you concerned about the fate of inconsequential women at court?"

"She is an innocent," Bontemps reminded him, the heels of his shoes echoing off the marble floors.

"Your point being?" Fabien asked, stopping to confront the man walking beside him. They knew each other well having both been in the king's employ for many years. Fabien would have called him a friend if he had any, but since he was careful to avoid any emotional entanglements, the point was moot. Although he was certain that Bontemps might think differently on the matter. He did, however, trust and respect the older man implicitly, and there were very few people amongst his acquaintance of which he could say the same.

"Fate has dealt her a cruel blow and she is now at your mercy.  _Under your protection_ ," Bontemps stressed, clearly unconcerned at the thought of rousing his ire. "It is your duty to see that she remains out of harm's way."

"I never took you for such a sentimentalist," Fabien deflected, ignoring the pangs of guilt that clawed at him. He stepped past Bontemps."Mademoiselle de Clermont has a role to play at Versailles, much like we all do. If she plays it well, then she has nothing to fear."

"Fabien—"

"Stay out of it," he warned, walking away. He was not in the mood for a lecture on morality from a man who knew that none existed at Versailles. It was a pleasure palace, a decadent, glamourous jewel that housed some of the most depraved men and women in all of France. Some of whom were plotting treasonous acts right under his nose. He needed every available resource to catch them.

And speaking of resources, perhaps he needed to check on his newest acquisition. He had not seen or heard from her since her short reply to his note earlier that morning. Turning away from the corridor that would have led him to his office, he retraced his steps and veered off towards the salon.

It was already dark outside, but the interior of the vast palace was illuminated by thousands of candles, its brilliancy chasing the shadows into the far corners of the opulent rooms he traversed in order to get to his destination. Strangely all the light made him uncomfortable. He preferred the shadows, felt more at ease on the fringe where he could observe rather than be observed.

He was but a short distance from the salon when he spied a familiar head of dark hair dashing through one of the concealed passageways. Frowning, he followed.

Furtively, he opened the door and peered inside, a stream of pale pink satin disappearing ahead of him. He trailed behind, the corridor dimly lit and narrow. It was not used by anyone other than servants or those who were up to no good and did not wish to be seen. Rounding the corner, he froze. Not in a million years would he have guessed the sight that awaited him. It was Mademoiselle de Clermont, bent over the Duc de Cassel, her pert bottom high in the air as she wriggled over his prostrate, seemingly lifeless form. Intrigued despite his better judgement, Fabien remained where he was, watching as she ran her hands inside the lining of the duc's evening coat. Finding what she was looking for, she squealed in triumph, lifting it up to the light. It was then that he noticed it was a letter.

Without thinking, he stepped forward and snatched it out of her hand. She gasped, rounding on him, her hands flying to cover her heart. As recognition dawned, her eyes flooded with relief "Oh, it is you," she breathed.

Then startlingly she smiled, and she was transformed. Her face lit up, her eyes coming alive as she radiated pure, unadulterated delight. It was a look of triumph, of accomplishment. Fabien stood rooted to the spot, incredulous that she was directing her pleasure  _at him_. No one ever smiled at him like that, without fear, without guile. The sight evoked a strange burning sensation deep in his chest.

Ignoring it, he snapped, "Have you lost your mind?"

As his tone registered, her pleasure dimmed and her smile wilted. Fabien should have been pleased, so he refused to examine why he felt anything but.

"I-I am sorry," Sophie stammered, nonplussed. "I was just—"

"Is he dead?" he clipped, moving to Cassel's side.

"No!" she denied. "He is just…well…drunk."

Fabien kicked Cassel firmly in the ribs. The man did not stir an inch. He glanced at Sophie, brow raised and her cheeks flooded with colour.

"He  _is_  drunk," she insisted. When Fabien remained silent, she gave an exasperated sigh. "Oh alright, I drugged him, too. And that there," she said, gesturing excitedly towards the missive still clutched in his hand, "is my reward for doing so."


	3. Chapter 3

" _Drugged?"_

Sophie tried hard not to fidget under the weight of Monsieur Marchal's intense scrutiny. He was the last person she'd expected to encounter this evening. Whilst she'd been relieved to see him at first, the feeling had vanished the moment she'd realised that he did not care to partake in her moment of triumph.

"Yes."

"How?"

"Mademoiselle Masson," she said, then hesitated, not sure how he'd react to knowing that she'd made a new friend. But lying would be pointless. He seemed to know everything. "She provided me with a…tonic."

Her news appeared to have no outward effect on him as he turned from her and glanced down at Cassel. The duc was lying in a pathetic heap, his mouth slightly ajar. "I assume the plan was not to render him unconscious in the middle of nowhere?"

His sarcasm chafed. "I fear I slipped him a little too much of the medication meant only to make him drowsy. I was following him hoping that he would enter his apartments and fall asleep directly, but unfortunately he seems to have lost cognizance before reaching his intended destination."

"Evidently," he concurred dryly. "How could you be certain of where he was headed?"

"I overheard him tell one of his set that he was retiring for the evening. I took that to mean he would seek his own bed."

His dark eyes met hers challengingly. "And if he did not?"

She bristled. "The duc is known for many things at court, monsieur, but being a sought after lover is not one of them," Sophie replied, unable to hide her distaste. "I am quite certain he would have spent the night alone."

Monsieur Marchal considered her in silence before he lifted the missive. "And this?"

"It was given to him by one of the servants. She is the same woman who gave him a note earlier today."

"There is another?" he asked swiftly.

"There was, but I did not manage to intercept it quickly enough," she confessed, hating to admit her folly. "That is when Claudine and I hatched a plan to retrieve it. Though I suspect it has most likely already been destroyed."

His jaw tightened, but he did not say anything more as he shifted his attention back to Cassel on the floor between them. The duc had not stirred once since they'd found him.

"What happens now?"

Monsieur Marchal turned the missive over in his hand. A stab of excitement coursed through Sophie. What if she had obtained some vital clue?

"I get answers."

Abruptly he set off the way they'd come.

"Wait!" Sophie called, stunned by his hasty departure. He froze and turned. She took a tentative step after him. "What about the duc?"

He shrugged. "He will likely remain oblivious for some time."

"So you are just going to leave him here?"

"If I had not stumbled across you, what would you have done with him?"

Sophie stared at the unconscious man at her feet. Truth be told, she had not pondered the possibility that he might not make it back to his quarters. "Left him as is."

Monsieur Marchal made to leave a second time. "W-wait!"

"You try my patience, mademoiselle," he snapped.

Ignoring his displeasure, she forged ahead. "What of me? I was the one who discovered the note. I should be there when you uncover what it says. That is what you are about to do, is it not?"

He regarded her quietly - watching, weighing, judging. He gave nothing away in either his body language or his facial expression. It felt as though those dark eyes could see right through to her very soul, stripping her bare and laying all her secret insecurities out before him. It was terribly unnerving, but Sophie forced herself to endure his probing study. She had nothing to hide.

Then suddenly he was done, turning away and opening the door leading out into the corridor beyond. He was leaving her behind. She sagged in disappointment. It seemed like it was perfectly acceptable for him to use her for information, but he would not share anything beyond the superficial with her. The man was insufferable. And arrogant. And—

"Well?" he called brusquely. "Are you coming?"

Shocked but pleased, Sophie did not wait to be asked twice. She leapt into action, clutching her skirts as she scrambled after him. She was practically running to keep up, but she did not dare complain. If he sent her away, she would never know what the missive contained and she had to admit that there was a certain excitement to be found in covert operations - an exhilaration she had not anticipated.

Whilst most of the palace slumbered, the whisper of her skirts and the slight clip of her heels on the intricately laid marble mosaic floors, broke the monotony of silence. The king's residence, still very much under construction, was a marvel of modern engineering and sophistication. It was decadent and opulent and breathtakingly beautiful. Beyond the unsightly scaffolding still dotted around the interior of the palace, was the promise of what Versailles would certainly be in years to come - the Sun King's most glorious legacy.

Ahead of her, his wavy hair swaying against his shoulders, Monsieur Marchal strode purposefully down a long hallway, his brown cloak billowing behind him. Tall, arched windows focused shafts of blue light across their path and directly onto the exquisitely carved marble statues perched proudly atop high plinths. It was a corridor Sophie was familiar with as it was close to the entrance to the palace and usually bustling with people during the daylight hours. Now, long past midnight, it was strangely eerie and desolate. Moving quickly, Monsieur Marchal's thigh-high leather boots made barely any sound at all as he negotiated their moonlit course. For such a large man, he was surprisingly graceful, she thought, then recoiled. Why on earth she'd think of him in those terms she had no idea.

"Where are we going?" she asked, slightly out of breath.

He ignored her and kept walking.

Annoyed, Sophie quickened her steps to get closer to him. "Monsieur, I asked—" He stopped so abruptly that she barrelled into his back, the feeling akin to walking into a stone wall. She would not be surprised if her skin was bruised come sunrise.

Before she could regain her composure, she felt herself being tugged sideways into the shadows at the base of one of the statues. The air in her lungs escaped in a  _whoosh_  as she was pinned to the cold marble, Monsieur Marchal peering down at her. She opened her mouth to protest his coarse treatment when he placed a gloved finger to his lips, commanding her silence. Her mouth snapped shut as she listened closely. Judging by the approaching bouts of drunken laughter, she knew it to be a few inebriated noblemen.

Still panting in an attempt to get her breathing under control, (traversing the palace corridors at any speed above a stroll was definitely not considered  _de rigueur_  for gently-bred young women) Sophie became intensely aware of their intimate position. The first thing her mind registered was how tall Monsieur Marchal was – he loomed at least half a head above her. The second, more startling fact, was that her body was quite firmly wedged against his from breasts to knees. With the marbled base of the statue behind her and one of Monsieur Marchal's hands clamped against her waist, there was literally nowhere to go.

She'd never been  _this_  close to a man before, had never felt the hard and unyielding strength of a grown masculine body pressed so familiarly to hers. Whilst Benoit had certainly been an ardent suitor, he'd never taken any liberties she'd not given freely. He'd kissed her and held her, but never pushed beyond her chosen boundaries. At the time she'd thought him perfectly wonderful. But this… well, this felt different in an alarming and intimidating and…oddly alluring way.

Sure that her cheeks were aflame, she stared down into the white lace of Monsieur Marchal's jabot, aware that her pulse was suddenly roaring in her ears. The confined, darkened space seemed to heighten her senses, making her ability to feel and perceive scents that much more acute. She could smell the traces of leather and starched linen on his skin, of herb infused soap in his hair, could feel the heat of his body through the numerous layers of her clothing. It was frightfully intimate. And the more she breathed, the more she seemed to inhale the very essence of him, until it felt as though he surrounded her both inside and out.

Sophie swallowed, attempting to wet her parched throat. The footsteps grew closer, as did the rough chatter. The men were nearly upon them. Monsieur Marchal tensed, pressing infinitesimally closer. She was not even aware that she'd closed her eyes, that her head had swayed forward until she felt something firm, yet soft, hit the middle of her forehead. Her eyes shot open and she realised she was staring at his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed. His lips! His lips were resting in the valley between her brows!

Mortified, Sophie jerked back just as Monsieur Marchal let her go. Her sudden freedom came as a surprise, the momentum of her backward motion forcing her head into the marble with a heavy thud.

She winced, but before she could raise her fingers to investigate, she felt two hands at the back of her hairline, probing upward against her skull with surprising tenderness. Monsieur Marchal's movements were brisk and efficient, yet gentler than she would ever have imagined him capable of.

Within seconds he retreated. "You might have bump in the morning, but I suspect you will live."

"You do not have to sound so disappointed," she retorted, annoyed that he appeared as composed as ever while she felt so, so… unsettled. Her own fingers rose to examine the skin at the back of her head. It felt tender, but not really painful.

"They have passed. Hurry," he commanded, scanning the area before leading the way through a concealed panel in the wall. She must have walked past it a hundred times and never knew it was there.

Sophie followed, still a little unsure of what had just occurred – if anything at all. "Those noblemen would not have thought it odd to see you monitoring the palace corridors at night. Why did you hide from them?"

"I was not hiding myself," he said, glancing at her askance. "As you say, it would not have been unusual for them to see me, but to see  _you with me_  would have caused gossip you can ill afford."

She dipped her head. Of course. Her association with him was not known to anyone at court other than the King, Claudine and perhaps Monsieur Bontemps. If they were caught together by any of the nobles this late at night, her reputation would be ruined. And her usefulness to him would come to an abrupt end.

"Monsieur, about what transpired a few moments ago—"

He stopped at another door, his hand on the knob. "What exactly just transpired?"

"By the statue, my brow grazed against your…lips," she explained. Spine straight, hands clasped before her, she met his unfathomable gaze with far more outward confidence than she felt inside. "I would like you to know that I was not making any…romantic overtures toward you. It was dark and I did not realise how close you were and, well, it did not occur by design."

There. She'd said it.

"The thought never crossed my mind." Sophie felt a moments relief until he added, "After all, you would have to be a fool to throw yourself at a man who has already rejected you." She gasped, but the sound was masked by the creaking door as it swung open. "Follow me."

Anger, embarrassment and humiliation warred inside of her, overwhelming whatever confusion she'd felt moments before. She stood frozen, watching as he disappeared ahead of her, unsure of how to proceed. A part of her wanted to turn on her heel and run as far from him as her feet could carry her. He was hateful! But the other part wanted to know what the missive contained and if she allowed him to best her now, she knew instinctively that he'd never grant her another such opportunity.

Wrestling her resentment into submission, Sophie took a deep breath and raced after him, realising that they were entering a portion of the palace hitherto unknown to her. There were a series of staircases that led down into a narrow, drafty, poorly lit corridor. She shivered, lamenting the fact that she did not have her cloak with her. They were clearly no longer in the part of the palace reserved for the king's guests. This labyrinth of tunnels and passages descended into a shadowy underworld that was now as much a part of her existence as it was a part of Monsieur Marchal's. They branched off and she waited as he rapped on the outside of a door that appeared to be bolted from the inside.

When the door swung open, Sophie inhaled sharply, stepping into a large rectangular room with high ceilings and small cut-out windows. The floor was bare stone, the walls lined with wooden bookcases that were filled with leather-bound tomes and rolls of parchment piled haphazardly atop one another. There were at least a dozen men sitting at a long trestle table as candles flickered overhead, flooding the room with light. There were writing implements such as quills and ink pots covering the working surface in a neat row down the middle, with stacks of parchment heaped high on either side. Blessed warmth was provided in the form of a roaring fire in an unusually large grate. Stepping closer to the table Sophie noted that some of the men were reading letters whilst others were… _copying_ them.

She blinked, then glanced at Monsieur Marchal, momentarily forgetting her ire.

"All correspondence entering and exiting the palace is intercepted and read," he explained. "If it is deemed suitably innocuous, it is sent on. But if it contains anything remotely suspicious, it is copied before being resealed and posted."

Sophie stared, stunned, trying desperately to remember what inane trivialities she'd shared in her own correspondence since arriving at Versailles. These men must have read it all. It was mortifying. "This is a gross invasion of privacy that must certainly be criminal."

Monsieur Marchal raised an insolent brow. "As is treason."

Naturally, he was right. If the king had a desire to know what the members of his court were truly thinking or doing, he had only to read their letters. Staring at the men bent diligently over their tasks, it occurred to her that Monsieur Marchal had instructed her to copy any correspondence she managed to divert, but he'd never told her how. Vexing man had been hoping she'd fail.

"What about the seal? Surely the receiver would realise that the note had been intercepted if the seal was broken?"

He nodded. "The challenge is therefore not to break it."

To demonstrate, he waved a sandy-haired young man away from his workstation and removed his gloves. He held the missive in one hand, unsheathing his dagger with the other. Heating the blade over the open flame of a candle, he turned the hilt around in his palm until he was satisfied that the tip had reached the required temperature. Fascinated, Sophie moved toward his side, watching as he carefully inserted the knife-edge between the red wax seal and the parchment. His large hands, capable of killing, was so patient, so gentle, as he carefully worked the hallmark loose until it finally separated from the parchment.

A thrill of anticipation in her belly, Sophie peered over his shoulder, getting the first look at what her handiwork had managed to uncover.

* * *

Fabien stared down at the parchment in his hand and frowned.

_3124342221354345342422234512154315111455_

"Numbers?" Sophie asked, confused.

Scowling, he murmured, "A cipher."

"Oh… Do you know how to read it?"

"Not yet." Fabien stared at the long line of figures, not sure where to begin. There were no breaks in the numbers, signalling the start and end of the words. That made it harder to determine how many numbers made up one word. If the writer had nothing to hide, he would not have gone to these pains. He turned the page over and stared at the seal. It was a generic signet, incapable of identifying its dispatcher.

"What do we do now?"

"We?" he drawled.

She tilted her chin defiantly. "I found the letter."

"Yes, so you did."

Fabien's gaze travelled over her. Despite the late hour Sophie looked completely alert, her cheeks a little flushed, her eyes bright and eager. The pale pink of her satin embroidered gown complimented her rosy complexion as did the styling of her hair, bound into a gleaming mass of dark curls. It was easy to see how the Duc de Cassel would be taken in by her charms. Innocent as she was, she had to know the effect she had on men and the ways in which she could manipulate them to suit her own gains.

For a moment when he'd had her pinned against the marble pedestal, he'd almost forgotten who she was. His purpose had been to conceal their presence from the midnight revellers. However, without the benefit of sight, it was easy to imagine that she was someone else, anyone else. Despite her unfortunate pedigree, she was still a woman with a woman's curves – soft and gently rounded in all the right places. And her scent, a delicate whiff of lavender, had teased his senses, stirring that which he was loathe to identify. Whilst that had all been mildly distracting, it had been the feel of her warm, satin smooth skin against his lips that had nearly ruined all of his self-imposed restrictions. It had evoked an unexpected jolt, an unwanted surge of feeling, the likes of which he'd never experienced before. Appalled, he'd pushed her away, her own shocked retreat enough to satisfy him that she had not sought the caress deliberately. He would never again be manipulated by another woman in the de Clermont family.

Vexed by his train of thought, he addressed the scribe whose workstation he'd commandeered. "Copy this exactly, then reseal the letter. Be quick."

"Will it be returned to the duc now?" Sophie asked.

He nodded. "He should remain none the wiser."

They watched as the scribe diligently copied the numbers, the handwriting identical. It was not strictly necessary as the reproduced document was for Fabien's use, but it was good practice. He heated Fabien's blade a second time, using it to soften the wax sufficiently before resealing the letter. Fabien took the original letter and the copy, handing the former to his man at the door and placing the latter into the slit between his shirt and doublet. He explained where to find the duc and stressed where the letter needed to be placed in order to avoid raising the duc's suspicions. Lastly, he reclaimed his dagger and sheathed it at his side.

Satisfied, he turned to Sophie. "You should get to your bedchamber."

She shook her head, her dainty gold and pearl earrings bouncing against her neck. "But what about the duc? Will you not ask him about the letter?"

"No, and do not speak of it to anyone," he warned, steering her out of the room. "The only way to expose the entirety of this treasonous plot is if those who are culpable do not know they are within an inch of being discovered."

She fell into step beside him. "Do you think the duc will respond to the sender?"

"Yes."

"Then we need to see his reply."

"I will see to it."

"But how?" she asked. "You have just mentioned that you cannot allow him to know he is being watched. If he saw you or any of your men lurking around, surely it would rear his suspicions?"

"I would remind you that I am not the amateur here," he dismissed.

Then, "I will get his reply."

Fabien's steps nearly faltered. "One stroke of luck does not a competent spy make."

"I can do it," she insisted stubbornly.

He stopped beneath the light of a flaming torch. "Somehow I doubt that."

"You employed me with the clear instruction that I need to do whatever necessary to gain information for you," she said, clearly annoyed. "Yet when I volunteer to do just that, you are reluctant to trust me."

" _Trust?"_  he scoffed, rounding on her. "To be clear, mademoiselle, I  _do not_  trust you. It is a sentiment that needs to be earned and you, I fear, have a long way to go."

"Nonetheless," she replied, gritting her teeth. "You have set me upon this course. I intend to see it through."

"Why this sudden fervor?" His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "A week ago you were lamenting your lost fortunes."

"A week ago I was forced to face the fact that my life was in ruins!"

"How quickly you seem to have recovered," he taunted.

"I cannot win with you!" Sophie burst forth, anger flickering in her eyes. "You assigned me this duty and now you blame me for taking too much interest in it. Were you hoping that I would sink under the weight of your indifference and run away?" Her chin rose stubbornly. "I will not."

He refused to examine the hypocrisy of which he stood accused. "Tell me, how do you intend to perform this feat?"

"You said that you were not concerned with my methods, monsieur, only the outcome," she reminded him coolly.

Not for the first time it struck him that she was braver than she looked. He'd been surprised by her success in retrieving something of potential value from the duc. He'd honestly expected her to fail dismally, or at least to give up. The fact that she'd befriended Claudine and devised a scheme that had actually worked was to her credit, he grudgingly admitted. However, this was a serious matter that could very well be time sensitive. He could not afford to have the bumbling attempts of an inexpert ruin his chances of catching the traitors amongst them. He would need to brief one of his best men to monitor the whereabouts of his intrepid charge. The last thing he needed was for her to inadvertently ruin his investigation.

"This is not a game," he reminded her.

"I am well aware of that," she replied with feeling. "One of the few people at the palace who treated me with genuine kindness became an unfortunate pawn in a dangerous scheme no one seems to understand, not even you," she accused.

Her words were like a punch to his gut. The fury in his gaze seemed to have a sobering effect on her for she swallowed awkwardly, taking a small step back before folding her arms defensively across her chest. The move drew his eyes to her bosom, where the tops of her breasts strained against the confining fabric of her corset and gown. Overhead, the torch's flames danced across her bare shoulders, highlighting the delicate dips at her clavicles and the gentle sweep of her neck. His body stirred and he hated himself, his anger sharpening. He needed to get away from her.

"Do not think that just because I invited you along on this rendezvous that your situation has improved. One word from me and you would be cut from polite society forever," he threatened in a low voice.

Expecting her to accede, he was stunned to see a determined glint enter her eyes. "My life may no longer be my own, but I will not give you or anyone else the satisfaction of seeing me cower. We struck a bargain and while I do not claim to rejoice in my current situation, I am resolved to make the most of it."

For reasons he did not understand, her heated words cooled his own anger. He still did not know what had induced him bring her along to see where his men worked, and only time would tell if it proved to be another error in judgement. "You seem sure of yourself."

At his even tone her shoulders relaxed. "I want to be useful. Moping about will not do me any good."

This was madness. She was inexperienced and although she'd had some measure of success on this day, that did not mean she'd have any more. One of his men would be assigned to watching Cassel and doing whatever was necessary to intercept his reply. Nevertheless, he heard himself say, "You will have a few hours at the most. If you fail to seize the reply—"

" _I know_ ," she stressed. "I can do it."

Fabien watched her carefully. She held his gaze and did not flinch. Reluctant approval slivered through him. He did not trust her, but they both knew he was all that stood between her and the gutters of Paris. If she betrayed him, she knew what the consequences would be.

"So be it," he said, walking away without a backward glance. She'd either prove herself capable or she'd fail trying. He told himself that either way, he did not care. He had a cipher to decode.


	4. Chapter 4

"Nooooo…!" Sophie groaned under her breath as she spotted the Duc de Cassel sitting at the gaming tables the following morning. She could not believe she'd missed him.

She'd been up all night, fully dressed, waiting to intercept his reply to the mysterious note she'd found on his person the previous evening. But her plan had gone horribly awry when she'd fallen asleep, waking with a horrified jerk mere minutes earlier.

Her intention had been to station herself close to the duc's apartments and lay in wait until he eventually exited. Her plan had not been to seize the letter directly from him, but rather from the servant she was confident was his emissary. She'd felt more confident about being able to outwit a nervous maid than the cunning duc himself. However, in the unfortunate event she was discovered by Cassel, Sophie had taken great pains over her appearance. She'd wanted to look her best should she need to employ her feminine whiles to distract him – perish the thought!

To this end, she'd donned one of her newer gowns, a soft wool in burnt orange with gold trim around the neckline and down the centre of the bodice. The colour suited her, enhancing her fair complexion and highlighting the flecks of gold in her eyes. The fashionable pickups in the skirt were flattering on her, appearing both youthful and flirtatious. Because she'd had to dress herself in the dead of night, she'd had no help with her hair, so the best she could muster on her own was to sweep her dark mane back into a simple chignon which she'd secured with a few pins and a gold comb.

But all her planning had come crashing down when she'd realised she'd succumbed to her own exhaustion. Panicked, she'd scarcely had time to wash her face and fix her hair before she'd hurried from her apartments to the salon, hoping she'd find news that Cassel was still indisposed. The fact that he was present meant that his reply had most likely already been ferreted out of the palace.

Her heart sank. This had been her chance and she'd lost it. How would she face Monsieur Marchal knowing that she'd failed? Sophie chewed on her bottom lip and discretely exited again. This was the opportunity she'd been looking for. Using some of the secret passageways she'd recently discovered, she made her way towards the guests' wing, ensuring she avoided any servants as they rushed about doing their masters and mistresses bidding.

Taking care, she traversed through dank hallways, chilly tunnels and blessedly empty foyers before she reached the end of a long marble corridor. She'd managed to discover where the duc slumbered after plying her maid with a few pointed questions. She tested the handle of the door she was certain provided entry into Cassel's bedchamber, articulating a muted gasp when it gave way. Heart thundering, Sophie pushed in, closing the door behind her with a soft  _snick_.

Her foremost thought as her eyes adjusted to the shadows within was that it was  _tiny_ , more like a closet than a place one would expect a high ranking noble to sleep. The king really had to be displeased with Cassel to have placed him in such a hovel. Her eyes travelled over the sparse interior, taking in the narrow bed, armoire, escritoire and chair. There were no other furnishings. Not that there was space to accommodate anything else. Through a small window close to the roof a silvery shaft of light filtered into the chamber, providing a trifling amount of cheer to counteract the overwhelming gloom. In the corner was a modest sized grate, the fire within having died down hours before.

 _No wonder Monsieur Marshal ransacks this place so regularly_ , Sophie thought. It would take no more than a few minutes to search the entire chamber from top to bottom.

Shrugging off her growing sense of disappointment, she looked around. First she stepped towards the bed, moving from the top end, around the side and down to the bottom, feeling under the mattress as she went. Nothing. Next she moved to the armoire. She wrinkled her nose as she sniffed the stench of wine and sweat clinging to Cassel's jackets. The man was a pig. After a few minutes of riffling through every part of the armoire and the clothing it contained, Sophie sighed. This was getting her nowhere. Then, more to satisfy her own curiosity than the real hope of finding anything, she perused the walls and floor, looking for any signs of a secret hiding place. There were none. At least none that her untrained eyes could detect. This entire endeavour had been pointless.

Dejectedly she strode towards the escritoire. It was exceedingly plain compared to the lavish ones she'd seen in other apartments throughout the palace. This one was made of dark wood with a modest decorative border around the edge. It had no drawers or compartments. An ink pot and a few pieces of plain parchment rested atop it. Absently she picked up the clean sheets of parchment and sifted through them. She was about it set it back down when something odd caught her attention near the middle of the uppermost page. There appeared to be an indent. Curious, she tilted the paper towards the light, her belly giving a hopeful lurch when she made out some feint scratches on the surface.

She whirled around, rushing to the grate and sinking to the floor beside it. Dipping the tip of her index finger into the black soot, she ran the digit lightly over the portion of the parchment where she'd seen the scratches. Her eyes widened. She repeated the process, this time doing so in a straight line across the page. There, before her eyes, were the numbers:  _53151143154315111455_. With excitement thrumming through her veins, she carefully folded the parchment and slipped it into the valley between her breasts. She needed to find Monsieur Marchal immediately.

Ensuring she left the chamber in exactly the same condition in which she'd found it, she silently exited. She was sure Monsieur Marchal was in his dungeon, but it would take some time for her to get there. She was impatient to know if he'd had any success in decoding the cipher she'd uncovered the previous day. If he had, this new piece of the puzzle might make matters more clear. Sophie knew nothing about cryptography, but she thought it rather fascinating.

Her stride shortened and her exhilaration lessened as the truth of what was happening hit home. Whoever the writer was, he or she would not have gone to such pains to hide their words if there was nothing sinister afoot. And Cassel seemed to be at the heart of it. Had he been one of the men plotting treason with her mother?

Sophie made her way past a group of workmen who were dismantling a section of scaffolding in a newly refurbished portion of the palace. It was not unusual for the royal residence to be teeming with masons, painters and other craftsmen. Since Versailles renovations had commenced years before, the nobles had become accustomed to the daily cacophony of sound as work progressed in various areas around the château.

Lost in her own thoughts, she was startled when her path was unexpectedly obstructed. She looked up, her eyes widening.

"Mademoiselle."

"Benoit," she breathed. She had not seen him since the night he'd rejected her. He looked the same as always, dressed in brown breeches and a white open-collared shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He wore no jacket. He'd obviously been hard at work because his shirt was slightly damp with sweat and his hands were stained white.

"You are still here," he accused, his dark eyes flashing.

Sophie stiffened. "I am."

"Why? You are not one of them," he said, jerking his head towards the window where a few nobles could be seen strolling through the gardens below. "You should be long gone."

"Shhhh!" Sophie grabbed his arm and tugged him away from the interested stares of his fellow workers. "Will you keep your voice down?"

"So your genteel friends do not know, then? That you are a fraud," Benoit said harshly, despite lowering his tone as she'd asked.

"No," she admitted reluctantly. "They know nothing."

His stared at her for a moment, then his jaw dropped. "You accepted Fabien Marchal's disgraceful offer."

"And what if I did?" Sophie asked defiantly. She would not let him make her feel ashamed for doing what she needed to survive. "I had little choice."

"You cannot be serious! The man is dangerous and immoral! You must have heard the rumours about him?"

"You know nothing about Monsieur Marchal," Sophie said, feeling an inexplicable desire to defend the man who'd done nothing but make her life miserable since the night she'd agreed to be his spy. But at least she knew exactly where she stood with him. She could not say the same for Benoit.

"Defending him already?" Benoit gave a mocking laugh. "I should not be surprised. After all, you chose to be his hired harlot rather than attempt an honest living."

"How dare you stand in judgement of me?" Sophie demanded, her cheeks flooding with colour. His cruelty hurt. "I came to you, I was honest and told you the truth! You were the one who turned me away. What would you have had me do?"

"The right thing?" he responded bitterly.

"What happened was not my fault," she said, her heart breaking a little at his inability to understand the position he'd placed her in. "I did not want to stay here, but I had nowhere else to go."

"You chose not to try," he said, shaking his head. His wavy brown hair had been tied back, though a few wayward strands had escaped to fall across his forehead. She'd always found the sight endearing. "You could have sought work. A woman like you has skills that could earn her some coin."

"I am unmarried, penniless and without any desirable connections, Benoit," Sophie countered heatedly. "I made a choice. Perhaps it was not the best one, but I do not need to justify myself to you or anyone else."

"Evidently," he replied icily.

"Tell me, what is any of this to you?" she asked, angry at him for not being who she'd thought he was and angry at herself for still caring. "You are rid of me. What I do is no concern of yours."

His eyes hardened. "You are right, of course. Please, do not let me keep you, mademoiselle. I pray you manage to maintain your ruse. I do not think life would be very pleasant for you, were your lies uncovered."

"Are you threatening me?" she whispered, aghast, unable to reconcile this standoffish man with the tender suitor he'd once been.

Benoit's eyes widened, regret flickering in their depths. "No! No, of course not. I am not that petty."

She nodded stonily, relieved. "Thank you."

He stepped closer. "Sophie—"

"I-I must go," she interrupted hastily. She did not think she could stand to hear what else he found objectionable about her. "Goodbye."

She hastened past him, feeling his gaze trailing after her. She ignored it.

* * *

 

Fabien was sitting at his desk pouring over the cipher. He ran a weary hand across his face; he could feel a mild headache coming on. He'd been up most of the night trying to decode the cipher's hidden message, but with no success. It was clearly about numbers substituting letters, but he wasn't sure what the missing element was that would unlock the process of substitution. And with there being no clear indication of how many numbers made up a single word, it was harder to unravel the sequence of numbers used in the coding process.

He shuffled through the innumerable notes he'd made and felt a wave of frustration wash over him. The king's life was in danger and he was no closer to uncovering who was behind the treasonous plot that would end in disaster if he did not make some headway soon. Understandably His Majesty was losing patience with his lack of results and in all honesty, he was losing patience with himself.

His eyes swept across his desk, past the stacks of books, sheets of parchment, writing implements and weapons laid out across the surface and finally settled on the carafe of wine one of his trusted servants had delivered earlier, along with a platter of sandwiches. He reached for the wine, pouring some of the ruby liquid into his empty goblet and drinking deeply; he ignored the food.

Hearing the approach of footsteps, he straightened, on high alert, relaxing somewhat when he saw Claudine, medical bag in hand. As was customary whenever she visited the palace, she was dressed as a man, in brown breeches and a matching jacket. Her absurd moustache, usually askew, was straight at present.

"If the mountain will not come to Muhammed…" she said, stepping into the room and placing her bag on his desk. "You have been ignoring my missives, Fabien."

"I do not have time for cossetting," he said firmly, but not unkindly. "You need not trouble yourself."

"Let me be the judge of that," she replied cheerfully, opening her bag and rummaging inside. "I do not think the king would take kindly to the head of his personal guard falling prey to a pesky fever because he refused medical care."

Fabien had sustained a wound to his belly after a scuffle with a traitor, and since he'd been ignoring Claudine's requests for him to see her, she'd obviously decided to track him down instead. Knowing she was persistent enough to make a nuisance of herself until she got her way, he pushed away from his workstation and stood, walking around the table towards her. While he removed his doublet, she pointed to the desk. He sat down on the edge.

Brisk and business-like, she lifted his shirt. "Hold this up, please." She then proceeded to remove the white bandages in order to inspect his wound. Her brows knit in concentration. "Hmmm…"

"Am I dying then?" he asked dryly.

"Not at the moment." She gave him a wry smile before bending back to her task and adding casually, "So, I finally met your new informant."

He went rigid at the mention of the de Clermont woman. "I am aware that it was your concoction that drugged the Duc de Cassel."

"It worked?" Claudine asked, clearly pleased. Fabien nodded. "Did Sophie find anything?"

"Yes. Although I am not yet certain what the significance of her discovery is."

"I am glad she succeeded," Claudine said, reaching into her bag to remove a glass bottle. "She is clever and resourceful."

"Why did you help her?" he questioned, watching as she uncorked the bottle and wet a clean strip of linen with its contents. Bending forward again, she dabbed it across his stitched flesh. It stung, but only mildly.

"Because she needed it. She is a sweet young woman who seemed a little lost and in need of a friend."

Fabien cared nothing for that sort of sentimentality. "Take heed. I am not yet convinced she is to be trusted."

"Come now," Claudine huffed in annoyance. Glancing down, he could not see her face, only the top of her blonde hair. "She is more lost sheep than scheming vixen."

"You do not know her," he countered.

Claudine stood upright. "And I imagine neither do you."

He narrowed his eyes at her, but she appeared unfazed by his brusque demeanour. She was one of the few people who did not seem to be intimidated by anyone, for she always spoke her mind, even to the king. Fabien respected her skill as a physician as well as her candour. Though he often found the latter quite grating.

"She is perhaps naïve and inexperienced," Claudine continued, reaching back into her bag, "but it would be a shame to see her spirit crushed."

Fabien snorted. "Clearly you do not know her well. She can be as stubborn as a mule."

"Is that so?" the physician asked, brow raised. "Good for her."

"I fail to see what business this is of yours," Fabien stated bluntly. "You have only met her once."

She merely shrugged. "That is true. However, I feel a certain…affinity for Sophie."

"She works for the crown. She must do whatever His Majesty deems necessary."

"You mean whatever  _you_  deem necessary?" she contradicted.

"Why do you care?" Fabien deflected, resenting her attempt to meddle in his affairs.

"I know a thing or two about how unfair life can be," she replied softly, applying a smelly salve to his wound. "How women suffer at the hands of powerful men. In my line of work I see desperate girls doing desperate things just to survive. I would not like to see Sophie ruined. She does not deserve such a fate."

Her words pricked at his conscience. He pushed past it. "Her fate was of her own choosing."

Claudine stared at him pointedly. "I think you and I both know she had little choice in the matter."

Her words echoed around them, swelling in the silence, making him feel the weight of them. The burden hovered over him, settling around his neck like a noose. He hated it, mentally fighting against its oppressive hold. He did not want to think about the de Clermont woman as anything other than a means to an end. He'd offered her a choice. She'd accepted. That was all.

At least that's what he kept telling himself.

"Leave the wound unbound so it can breathe," Claudine said, oblivious to his inner struggle. She stepped back and wiped her hands on a linen rag, then gestured for him to lower his shirt. "You are healing well, and there is no sign of infection. However, the stitches are still vulnerable, so take care not to tear them." Evidently she was done chastising him. Fabien tucked his shirt into his breeches while she packed her accoutrements back into her bag. "How is your investigation coming along?"

"Slowly," he said. He knew she was attempting to smooth things over between them, so he let her impudence go. "There is still much work to be done."

"Then I shall bid you good day." Snapping her bag shut, she hefted it off the table. "Send word should you need my help."

Fabien nodded and she exited.

He watched her go, his mind already locking her words away into a place where he need not ponder their meaning. He had work to do, chief of which was the interrogation of his night guards. He'd already had word that Cassel's missive had been intercepted by one of his men. He wondered what Mademoiselle de Clermont had been up to and how she felt about having failed to do what she'd assured him she was capable of.

Restless for answers, he grabbed his cloak and strode out of his office. Perhaps he would just go straight to the source.

* * *

 

Sophie pushed the incident with Benoit to the back of her mind and was hurrying towards the secret panel Monsieur Marchal had showed her the night before when she spied the Duc de Cassel heading in her direction. In the clear light of day it would not be possible to hide at the base of one of the statues and not be detected. Remembering that she'd prepared for just such an occasion, she straightened her spine and braced herself for the meeting.

"Mademoiselle, we meet again," Cassel drawled as he drew nearer. "How lovely you look."

"Duc," she replied by way of greeting, repressing the disgusted tremor that rose within her when he bent over her hand, the tips of his limp grey hair brushing against her skin. "You are too kind."

"I was just about to take in some fresh air." His cold grey eyes stared at her, roving across her shoulders and down toward her chest. "Would you care to join me for a stroll?"

She'd rather die, but Sophie knew she needed to ingratiate herself to him and running away whenever he was in the vicinity would not achieve that. The parchment she'd stolen from his bedchamber not half an hour before, burned between her breasts, but she forced herself to smile. "I had no idea that you had a fondness for gardens, Your Grace."

"I do not, usually," he said, offering her his arm. Sophie had no choice but to place her hand in the crook of his elbow. "But I am certain that in the presence of your beauty ordinary shrubs and bushes will be transformed."

"You flatter me," she said, sweetly.

They stepped outside onto the gravelled pathway leading through the king's magnificent exterior grounds. The gardens, still under construction in parts, were lush and green, all manner of imported and indigenous plants filling the air with the ripe, sweet scent of flowers. There were other nobles strolling about and Sophie nodded at those they passed on their way towards the Latona fountain.

The weather was mild and sunny, even though there was a crispness to the air that alluded to the coming winter months. Sophie did not have her cloak with her, but she did not think she'd need it. Provided she remained out of the shade, she'd be comfortable enough.

"Would you indulge me, mademoiselle? There is a particular spot below the fountain that offers a spectacular view," Cassel said. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, but Sophie nodded. There were people about. Surely he would not try anything untoward. "I am certain you will enjoy it."

They reached the base of the fountain.

"Is it not marvellous?" she asked, stopping to admire the fountain's beauty. Modified several times over the past few years, the water feature honoured the legend of the Greco-Roman goddess Latona, mother of Apollo and Diana, and depicted her encounter with the peasants of Lycia.

"It is rather…amphibian," Cassel replied.

Sophie nearly rolled her eyes. "Do you know the myth it represents?"

"Vaguely," Cassel said, looking mildly interested.

"The fountain illustrates the story of the Latona, who having been insulted by some peasants, seeks vengeance and transforms the offenders into frogs," she explained, then pointed toward the first of three tiers, where several golden half-human, half-frog sculptures were in the throes of their transformations. The second and third tiers featured frogs, with Latona and her children, carved from bright white marble, in the centre. "It is magnificent."

"Hmmm… yes, yes. Shall we continue?" Cassel asked, drawing her toward the steps below the fountain. The sound of the gushing water soon faded into the background the further they moved from it. "You have been scarce these past few days," he continued. "Have you been indisposed?"

So he had noticed her absence. "I miss my mother. I fear I have been sending her far too many letters."

"Ah," he said. "And how is the Madame de Clermont?"

"She writes to say she is well and enjoying her time away from the prying eyes at court. I am sure you must miss your estates?" she pivoted smoothly, hating to lie about her mother.

"Yes, indeed," he said, his jaw tightening. "Though you have been there, yourself. There is much to miss, is there not?"

Sophie did not think so. She could not imagine living in such a cold and soulless place. "Undoubtedly."

"I look forward to the time when I shall return there."

"Do you suppose that time is near?" she probed innocently.

"Perhaps," he replied with a cryptic smile that sent a shiver down her spine. "The king might…have a change of heart soon."

His tone, light and even, held an underlying hint of something that unsettled her. "I did not see you after supper last evening. Did you retire early?"

"I did. It would seem I indulged a trifle too generously in His Majesty's fine selection of wines. I was forced into my bed early. And alone," he added softly.

Sophie swallowed, aware that there were less people in this section of the garden than around the fountain. Perhaps it had been unwise to venture in this direction with a man of his repute. She stopped. "So, where is this view—"

Without warning she was forcefully dragged through a gap in the tall hedgerow. With a shriek of alarm she stumbled, falling forward into Cassel's waiting arms. He twisted and pushed her back into the shrubbery, his mouth crushing down hard on hers.

She cried out, but the sound was muffled by his mouth. He forced his tongue between her lips, his rancid breath making her gag. She pushed against him desperately, bucking wildly in an attempt to dislodge him. But her frantic attempts at escape only seemed to fuel his ardour, his rough hands everywhere at once.

Shaking her head, she managed to dislodge his lips from hers. "Stop…please," she gasped, dragging copious amounts of oxygen into her lungs.

She was about to scream when his hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her. "That will not do, mademoiselle," he hissed against her ear, forcing his pelvis against hers. "We cannot have anyone ruining the fun we are about to have."

She could feel the hard outline of his manhood against her belly, the terrifying knowledge of what was about to happen to her seeping into her paralysed brain. With renewed vigour she fought, her hands clawing and hitting against his shoulders.

 _No, no, no. Please, God, not like this_ , she prayed over and over again, tears seeping out of the corners of her eyes. She felt one of his hands reach beneath her skirts, insinuating his fingers between her thighs. She struggled harder, pushing and shoving with all her might, but for a man who seemed slight and unremarkable in stature, Cassel was surprisingly strong.

"You will like it, I promise," he whispered raggedly, licking along the curve of her outer ear. "The less you resist, the easier this will be."

"If you value your life," came a deathly cold, familiar voice, "you will let go of the lady this instant."

Cassel froze, so did Sophie. Her eyes popped open, her knees buckling with relief.

Her unexpected saviour, watching them with eyes filled with rage the likes of which she'd never witnessed before, was none other than Fabien Marchal.


	5. Chapter 5

Fabien was  _enraged._

He'd been striding through the palace corridors en-route to the salons when he'd caught a glimpse of someone familiar out of one of the large, looming upstairs windows. He'd halted, his gaze wondering over Mademoiselle de Clermont's lustrous dark hair and trim figure, housed in a becoming gown of deep orange that glinted with hints of gold in the sunlight.

Unfortunately he'd also immediately recognised her escort.

Standing at the Latona fountain, his young spy had been pointing out some feature that the Duc de Cassel was not particularly interested in, because he steered her down the stairs in the direction of the lake. Fabien should have been pleased to see her with the duc, but for reasons he refused to examine too closely, a chill went down his spine when he noticed the possessive hand the duc had placed on her back. It was pure instinct that drove him to follow them, exchanging hasty words with a passing Bontemps, who'd fortuitously been in the vicinity, before cutting a path through the gardens toward the tall hedgerows.

What he stumbled upon nearly froze the blood in his veins. Cassel had a hand over Mademoiselle de Clermont's mouth, smothering her cries of protest whilst his other hand burrowed beneath her skirts. She was fighting valiantly to fend him off, hitting and shoving him, but with little success. For a slight man, Cassel fairly towered over her, making her appear unusually small and defenceless as she struggled to break free.

Fabien's mind told him that he'd been expecting this very thing to happen, that it was in Cassel's nature to force himself upon innocents. In fact, he'd even warned his newest spy that she ought to encourage his attentions. But Fabien had not known how he'd react to seeing it happen. He could not have predicted the staggering rage that swelled within him, filling him with an overwhelming desire to crush, to quell, to vanquish. He may not trust his young ingénue, but it certainly incensed him to see her assaulted.

"If you value your life," he heard himself say, his voice clipped and deathly cold, "you will let go of the lady this instant."

The duc went still, rendered inert by the sudden, unexpected intrusion. His head whipped around, his eyes narrowing to slits when he recognised Fabien. He let go of the lady and took a step back, his face a mask of repugnance. The lady, however, remained motionless but for her hands which reached behind her to wrap around the vines at her back. It appeared to be the only thing holding her upright.

"I wonder if His Majesty is aware that his watch dog is spying on his betters?" Cassel drawled.

"Of course," Fabien said, barely resisting the urge to ram his fist down the duc's smug throat. "That is, after all, the entire purpose of my existence."

Cassel's eyes glinted with malice. "Your presence is not needed here."

"But I think it is." Fabien took a slow, intimidating step toward the duc, who backed up. "Rest assured that His Majesty  _will_  be made aware of his nobles accosting innocents against their will."

The duc's already pale face turned a little green. "You have no right—"

"I act on His Majesty's behalf. I have _every_  right," Fabien interrupted, his voice dangerously low.

While he did not match any of the nobles in rank, his position as the king's chief of security was enough to command the highest respect. His word, in many instances, was considered as good as the king's. He did not mind if he was disliked by most, so long as he was feared by all.

"You will pay for this intrustion," Cassel intoned.

"Really? Just what are you going to do about it?" Fabien now stood before the duc, his superior height and size used to its best advantage. He knew he was intimidating up close, could already see Cassel's mind whirling, wondering if it had been in his best interests to antagonise the man who was, perhaps, closer than anyone else to the king.

Cassel's mouth twisted. "I am a duc of France and I say that you have no business here."

"That depends on the lady." Fabien glanced at Mademoiselle de Clermont. He'd been avoiding looking at her for fear of losing the tenuous grip he had on his restraint. A disturbing first for him. If there was one thing he excelled at, it was remaining aloof and unaffected at all times.

Mademoiselle de Clermont appeared stunned, her eyes large and brimming with moisture as they clung to his. He'd known her for some time, had seen her display a spectrum of emotion, from anger and resentment, to hurt and despondency. But he'd never seen her looking so vulnerable, so utterly terrified. His heart gave a surprising lurch and his gloved hand subconsciously moved and settled on the hilt of the blade at his side. Her stare held him captive, the fear in them reaching across the distance between them and punching him in his gut. He wanted to look away, wanted to bury the tide of guilt that rose sharply within him, whispering that this was all his fault, but he could not.

Then unexpectedly she blinked, and her expression went blank. "I am well, monsieur." Her voice trembled slightly, belying her words. "I am in no danger from the duc."

Fabien flinched. She was holding up her end of their bargain. She thought he expected it. And  _he did_. Had he not told her so himself? Then why did he have a ball of flames smouldering away in his belly?

Cassel smiled, pleased. "As the lady says, you waste your time here."

"Nevertheless, His Majesty has requested to see you."

Surprise, then suspicion flickered across the duc's face. "Now?"

"Immediately," Fabien said. "Bontemps awaits your presence at the palace."

Cassel ran a hand over his hair and tugged his jabot into place before glancing at Mademoiselle de Clermont. "I am sure we shall meet again, soon," he said with a hint of something that made Fabien want to skin him alive. Then, "Marchal." He departed, with Fabien's hawkish gaze trailing after him.

He heard a gasp and glanced back at Mademoiselle de Clermont. She'd sunk to the ground, her palms flat, her fingers curling into the neatly trimmed grass. He strode quickly to her side, then paused. For the first time in his life, he was unsure of how to proceed. "Are you alright?"

She remained silent, her face turned away from him. In the distance he could hear the voices of nobles laughing and talking as they strolled across the grounds. They could not be caught like this. "Mademoiselle?" Still she said nothing. He tried again, "Mademoiselle de Clermont?" When she once again failed to react, he knelt beside her. "Sophie!"

Her name on his lips startled them both. It was the first time he'd ever used it. She turned toward him, her eyes wide, her cheeks stained with tears. She was shaking. "I-I am sorry. I cannot seem to s-stand."

"You have to. There are others about. We must not be seen alone together."

"Then go," she said. "I shall manage. I just need a moment."

Fabien dismissed her words. In her current state, if found, she'd only rouse more gossip. Sophie attempted to push herself up, but she was trembling so badly, she swayed sideways. Fabien swore.

"Hold on to me," he said gruffly, reaching for her.

He placed one arm around her shoulders and the other beneath her legs, lifting her easily into his arms. At his touch, she tensed, going stiff as a board. "Easy," he soothed, as though he were pacifying a skittish filly. He made certain his touch was impersonal and non-threatening, a consideration that took him aback. It was certainly a first for him. He usually specialised in being as threatening as possible.

His long strides carried them away from the circulating nobles and down a deserted path separated by tall trees. It was away from the crowds and while the odd amorous couple occasionally ventured that way if they wished for some privacy, it was mostly abandoned save for gardeners and a few of Fabien's men who kept watch from a discreet distance. They would need to circle back in order to re-enter the palace, but Fabien knew the grounds like the back of his hand and was confident they could do so unobserved by anyone of importance.

After a few minutes, he felt Sophie relax against him, her head cushioned on his chest. She felt slight in his arms for she weighed no more than a feather. The faint traces of her lavender scent wafted up towards him, tickling his senses, its allure unsettling. Outside of his cold and clinical sexual liaisons, he was never overly familiar with women. Intimacy, a concept that was as foreign to him as the idea of love, was for poets and fools. Allowing anyone close enough to know his weaknesses, was, in his experience, asking for betrayal. Though for someone who prided himself on his ability to keep his emotions firmly contained, the peculiar yet alarmingly appropriate sensation of holding her, filled him with an array of feelings that were both alien and unnerving.

"Thank you for coming to my aid," Sophie said, her voice soft and thick with emotion. "I know you expect me to play my part, but—"

"Be quiet," he snapped, though he did not know if he was addressing his thoughts or her words.

She lifted her head. "Are you angry with me?"

"How I feel is irrelevant," he said, when their eyes met.

"You _are_  angry." She pushed against his chest, bristling with annoyance. Good. He'd rather have her anger than her sobs. Anger he could manage. Feminine tears he had no patience for. "Set me down, please."

He hesitated for a split second before placing her on her feet. She grasped his forearms to steady herself, her touch light and soft…and then it was gone. She stepped back. Her eyes, dark like burning coals and filled with fire, pierced him in place.

"How have I displeased you now?" she demanded. "Is it because I did not allow that lecherous man to, to—"

"Do not be ridiculous," Fabien said curtly, stepping around her. The path they were on was not particularly wide, but certainly broad enough for the two of them to walk side-by-side. At present, he was striding away from her.

"Then what?" she pressed, stomping after him. "Why do you always have to be so surly and ill tempered?"

"You are hysterical," he dismissed. He was not in the mood to explain himself to her. He never explained himself to anyone, save the king. And even then, it was done reluctantly.

" _Hysterical_?" she echoed. He felt a sharp tug on the back of his coat and whirled around to face her. "You try being mauled by some depraved, lewd old man and see h-how you like it!" Her voice quivered, a sign she was not as impervious as she was pretending to be. For the second time that day, his heart lurched unexpectedly. "I swear, you are the most callous, arrogant and…and  _uncouth_  man I have ever had the misfortune to meet!"

He raised a brow. "I thought that honour belonged to Cassel."

"No, definitely you," she said, sharply. She looked furious, her colour high, her eyes shooting daggers at him. Her hair, which had come loose as a result of the assault she'd endured at the hands of Cassel, hung down her back, in a thick, shiny mass, with a few strands dangling around her face. She should have appeared a bedraggled mess. Instead, she looked uncommonly pretty.

Frowning, he said, "Mere seconds ago you were expressing your gratitude towards me."

"I take it back. I  _do not_  thank you. In fact, I do not need you to find my way back to the palace." She raised her chin, crossing her arms over her chest. "I will get there on my own."

Well, at least she was no longer on the brink of tears, he thought, relieved. "Then by all means." He set off again. "I will send a note to the gardeners shortly."

"The gardeners?" she called after him.

"They will be the ones who eventually uncover your decomposing corpse," he tossed over his shoulder.

"My decomposing corpse…?" Then, without warning, she burst into laughter. Fabien froze. The sound was foreign to him, particularly because it was seemed so out of place at Versailles, where almost everything and everyone was artificial, manufactured to play a role. She sounded so…pure, without guile or artifice. He had not heard its likeness in a very long time. "You are truly without any charm."

He turned, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Are you about to swoon?"

"No, no, I am not," she said with a grin, then sobered. "I do not know what exactly gave you away, but I have uncovered your plan." She cocked her head to the side, studying him in a way that made his skin prickle. "You have been antagonising me, quite deliberately, to ensure that I do not succumb to feminine histrionics." Stunned by her insight, he did not acknowledge her words, merely followed after her when she resumed walking. They walked in silence for a while, the only sound the crunch of gravel beneath their feet and the distant hum of birds in the trees. After some time she added, "Whatever your motivation, I am grateful for what you did today. Thank you."

They were now walking abreast, but she was not looking at him. In fact, she was staring straight ahead, as though she preferred not to have to address the words directly at him – but her sincerity was unmistakable. Fabien felt uncomfortable with her gratitude, unsure of how he ought to respond.

While he pondered his reply, her arms lifted to wrap around her waist. It was then that he noticed she was shivering. She had no cloak. He glanced around, taking in the tall trees on either side them, their leafy canopies obstructing the warming rays of the sun. With a scowl, he untied the chords at his neck, and removed his cloak, dumping it unceremoniously across her shoulders.

"Oh!" she yelped.

"Try not to trip over the hem," he said, without breaking stride.

"Thank you," she said, clearly surprised. She quickly burrowed into the warm folds and lifted the bottom into her arms, preventing it from dragging on the floor.

"You are the third man to insult me today," she continued conversationally, as though it were perfectly normal for them to find themselves in their current position. "And if I were indeed prone to fits of melodrama, I think I would be throwing quite the tantrum now. In fact, I would most likely have earned the right to."

"Third?" he questioned, unable to subdue his curiosity.

She wavered, as though no longer wished to finish the thought. Fabien waited.

"Well, Cassel you know of. And you, of course" she said pointedly. "Also, uh, Benoit."

He glowered. "The builder?"

"Yes."

"Did he accost you as well?"

At his fierce tone, her head snapped around. "No, not at all."

He waited a beat, then forced his next words out in a calmer, more rational tone. "Then how did he insult you?"

"Our paths crossed this morning. It was the first time I'd seen him since…." Her voice trailed off before she added, "Anyway, he took the opportunity to chastise me for my poor choices." He did not miss the stab of pain in her voice. "It seems that you and he have at least one thing in common."

Fabien could not imagine what similarities he and the builder might share. He'd dug into Benoit's background some weeks before and apart from a self-righteous streak and a mild affinity for drink, the younger man seemed harmless enough. "And what is that?" he heard himself asking.

"You both despise me," she said softly.

Their eyes clashed - hers filled with naught but the truest belief in her words whilst his was carefully guarded. He ensured that he projected nothing that would provide any clues to his inner thoughts. Heat crept up her neck and suffused her cheeks before she glanced away, running a hand self-consciously over the top of her mussed hair.

Despise her? Of course he did. She was an unknown entity, someone whose loyalty he could not ever be completely certain was allied with him. And yet, even as he thought it, the waters somehow seemed murkier, as though the answer was no longer as simple as he'd once imagined it to be. Perhaps he no longer felt as though she were inherently bad, though his mistrust of her was still strong. Even if he were to remove her outward innocence from the equation, another pertinent fact counted against her: she'd been raised by a woman who'd proven to be one of his most formidable opponents. Surely it was impossible to suppose that she had somehow failed to adopt her mother's scheming and cunning nature. Only suddenly he no longer felt as confident about that assertion as he once had.

"Oh!" she said unexpectedly, cutting through his internal musing. "I found this earlier." She reached between her breasts and extracted a sheet of folded parchment. It was a cipher, etched lightly in the paper and highlighted in black soot. "I, uh, missed intercepting the duc's missive this morning because I fell asleep." Her cheeks went red again. "However, I did find this when I searched his chamber earlier. He must write with a heavy hand."

"You  _are_  resourceful," he murmured, remembering Claudine's words.

Her brow kicked up. "Was that a compliment?"

"Perhaps," he agreed, reluctantly. "Though it is by no means a ringing endorsement."

"Of course not," she said lightly. "After all, spies are not meant to be resourceful  _and_  hysterical, are they?" She glanced at him with wide eyes and feigned innocence. "Well, at least not at the same time."

He glared at her. "You mock me?"

"Never," she said far too quickly, betraying her true intent.

He felt his lips twitch and resisted the impulse to smile. She was teasing him. No one ever teased him. They were too afraid to dare.

"Have you managed to decode the first cipher?" she asked, swatting away a flying insect.

"No. It is proving harder than I had anticipated."

"What if we fail to uncover what the messages mean?"

"That is not an option," he stated decisively. He would find out what Cassel had planned, even if he had to torture every single servant himself. "The truth will be uncovered and the guilty punished."

They reached a fork in the pathway, the left heading deeper into the forest and the right back toward the palace. Together, they veered to the right where the path opened up to reveal a lone figure hunched over to the side with his back toward them, one elbow deep in the soil.

Hearing their approach, the figure turned. "Ah, Fabien. I was not expecting you."

"Jacques."

The older man pushed upward and stood, wiping his dirty hand on the front of his jacket. His other hand, covered in a brown leather glove, was immobile at his side. "And I see you have brought a lovely guest with you," he said, his keen eyes taking in Sophie's dishevelled appearance.

She must have noted his scrutiny, because her cheeks pinkened, and her hands smoothed over the front of her gown in embarrassment. She was regarding Jacques with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity. Fabien could not blame her. Jacques was somewhat of a contradiction. He was certainly a gifted horticulturalist and appeared to most to be mild mannered and congenial. But there was an air about him that spoke of something deeper, something more sinister. Perhaps it was the obvious: the fact that he clearly only had one working arm. Or perhaps it was his lined and weathered face that housed deep-set, penetrating brown eyes which had a tendency to unsettle anyone who held their gaze for too long. Also, his unruly mane of hair, a mixture of blonde threaded with grey, did not help to detract from the hint of peculiarity that dogged his already intimidating countenance.

"This is…Mademoiselle de Clermont," Fabien said, gesturing toward the woman at his side. He knew that Jacques recognised her by the slight tic along his jaw. "She is a guest at the palace."

"I see, I see," he said softly.

Sophie's glance travelled between them, as though she sensed something was amiss.

"I would take your hand in greeting, mademoiselle," Jacques said, "but I fear my touch would only sully your beauty."

Sophie smiled uncertainly. "Have we met, monsieur? I feel as though you recognised me."

The gardener shook his head. "Just Jacques, please. And no, we have not met." He paused. "I am responsible for maintaining the royal gardens."

Fabien could visibly see her shoulders relax. "Your work is truly magnificent."

"Thank you," Jacques replied. He was a practical man, not in need or want of praise. He seemed to know his own worth and waited for no person to bestow upon him what he already knew he possessed. Though some might guess, few people actually knew that gardening was not his only talent. Fabien watched Sophie closely, wondering what she would do if she knew she stood before the man who'd executed her mother.

"How do you do it?" she asked, gesturing toward the greenery surrounding them. "Get all these plants and trees to bend to your will?"

Jacques looked around and then stooped to pluck a white carnation from the soil at his feet. He held it out to Sophie. "Every flower is like a soul blossoming in nature. If you show it care and consideration, it will reciprocate in kind."

"How lovely," Sophie said, sniffing the perfumed petals.

Jacques smiled. "So, what brings the two of you this far from the palace? The mosquitoes usually ensure that I work in solitude."

"We took a detour," Fabien deflected, not thinking it necessary to provide too much detail. Luckily Jacques was shrewd enough not to ask. "I take it no one else has come this way?"

"No. Not unless you are referring to His Majesty – who visited briefly yesterday."

"The king calls upon you here?" Sophie asked, surprised.

Jacques lips curved upward. "Often, mademoiselle. His Majesty seems to enjoy talking about flowers."

"How extraordinary."

"No matter a man's station in life," the gardener continued, "there is much to be discovered about ourselves when we turn to nature for answers. A good ruler knows this."

Fabien nearly rolled his eyes. He did not have the time to listen to Jacques wax poetic about shrubs and saplings. "We should—"

"Or perhaps," Sophie interrupted, beaming at Jacques, "you are just very effective at dispensing advice in the form of floral metaphors."

The gardener chuckled. "I cannot say, mademoiselle. But I fear I must get back to work. His Majesty has exacting standards and I have much to do that requires the utmost concentration."

"Of course," Sophie said.

"However, you are welcome to visit whenever you like – Fabien knows how to find me. I would be honoured to give you a proper tour of the palace gardens."

"You are very kind."

Fabien frowned at Jacques. What was he up to? Surely he did not want to admit to his role in Beatrice de Clermont's demise?

"Come," Fabien said to Sophie, giving the gardener a warning look which earned him a brief nod in return.

"How do you know Jacques?" Sophie asked as they moved off.

"He has worked here for years." Fabien could almost hear her mind working, trying to figure out how to ask the question he knew was uppermost in her mind. "How did he…you know…lose his hand?"

"You could have asked him yourself."

She gasped. "That would have been unforgivably rude. Besides, he is your friend."

Fabien scowled. "I do not have friends."

Sophie glanced at him. "Surely that is not true. There must be someone you consider a close companion?"

"No." He kept walking, his eyes focused on their surroundings.

"But what about Monsieur Bontemps? Or Claudine?" she asked, aghast.

"No," he reiterated, hoping she'd cease her line of questioning. He did not speak about himself to anyone.

"Why ever not?" she persisted.

"My reasons are not your concern."

She considered him in silence for a moment. "You are right. I should not pry."

Fabien stared, taken aback by her acquiescence. She stared back. Something stirred in his chest. Something uncomfortable and unsought. He glanced away. "We are nearing the château," he said, lengthening his step. The palace entrance was up ahead and he was eager to get inside. And away from her.

"What did His Majesty want to see Cassel about?"

"He did not."

"But you told him—"

"—that he needed to find Bontemps."

"He will be fobbed off," Sophie said, slightly out of breath. She'd lifted the hem of her gown as well as the cloak and was hurrying after him.

"Precisely." He could see their destination now, the entryway well concealed and never used by anyone other than himself and a few of his closest men.

He led the way past a series of magnificent marble statues before they reached an obscure doorway. Fabien withdrew his key and slipped it inside the lock, feeling the slight resistance before the mechanism gave way and granted them ingress. Like the rest of the château's concealed passageways, this one was equally dark, drafty and fetid.

After a few twists and turns, Fabien stopped beside an archway. "I suggest you make your way to your bedchamber and right your appearance. You appear somewhat…tousled."

He could not see her full features in the dim light, but he imagined her colour was high.

"Yes, of course."

He pointed right. "Take this passage all the way to the end. You will reach a stairwell. Go up two flights. You will emerge close to the guest's quarters. I trust you will be able to make your way to your apartments from there?"

Her reply was hampered by the arrival of one of his men striding purposefully toward them. "Girard?"

The fair-haired man handed Fabien a note. "From Monsieur Bontemps."

Fabien moved closer to a flame-lit torch, broke the seal and scanned the contents, frowning.

"What is it?" Sophie asked.

"It would seem that the king is planning to promote Cassel to Justice Minister."

" _What?!_ "

For once, Fabien agreed wholeheartedly with Sophie's reaction. "I must go."

"W-Wait!" He stopped. "What shall I do?"

His eyes travelled over her. She looked quite regal standing there with his cloak draped across her back, hands clasped together, eyes focussed. "Nothing…for now. I will send word when I need you."

She looked as though she would argue, but said instead, "Very well."

Their eyes locked once more and lingered, both searching for that which neither of them could identify. Over the course of an afternoon, something intangible had shifted between them. Fabien could not say what exactly it was, or why he felt the change, but it was there, burgeoning between them like a delicate blossom fighting for survival. He resented it, did not want any part of it, and hated that he could not seem to stop it.

"Go. Now," he commanded, watching as she moved past him and disappeared down the hall. He turned to Girard. "Follow her. Make sure that she reaches her apartments without incident." He paused. "Then find Claudine Masson and tell her that Mademoiselle de Clermont might be in need of her company."

Girard nodded, and moved to do his bidding. Fabien did not question why, for the second time that day, he'd acted to protect the woman he was supposed to despise.


End file.
